Master of Crows Read Online Free PDF Page B

himself not only the bishop’s equal but his superior.  In her experience, only those born of noble stock and to great wealth displayed that conduct.  Martise despised such people.
    She’d have to temper her dislike for the crow mage.  He was no different from any other landowner or high-ranking clergyman, and so far inflicted nothing more damaging on her than a few snide remarks.  Still, there was something inherently dangerous about him.  Conclave did not always rule by paranoia; instinct warned her to tread carefully around him, though she itched to box his ears for his arrogance.
    He confused her more than anything.  She was used to haughty behavior from those of his class and should have felt nothing more than the usual disdain of a servant for those she served.  But fire had licked her insides at her first sight of him.  Her face heated with what was surely the hottest blush ever gracing a woman no longer a maiden.  Such feelings had no place here.  She was bound; he was outcast.  She resided at Neith to spy on him, and if the promise in his expression was any hint, he'd make her wish she never crossed his threshold.
    His scarlet robes, bright and overwhelming in a house painted in shades of gray and faded brown teased her memory.  There was a stark beauty about him, a compelling strength in his sharp-boned face with its prominent cheekbones and hooked nose.  Like Cumbria, he radiated power in the set of his shoulders, the challenge in his dark eyes.  Even Martise, Gifted but failed, sensed it.  The mage-finders must have gone wild when they first scented him.  He was a renegade and possibly a heretic.  If he was as formidable as the canonry believed, and as susceptible to Corruption’s seduction as they suspected, then the clerics had a right to their misgivings.
    The sight of the rickety wooden stairs descending to the first floor made her forget her annoyance with Neith’s master.  Martise paused, envious of Cael’s surefootedness when he eased passed her and took the steps two at a time.  Sagging in spots and broken in others, they were a death trap.   But it wasn’t her place to complain.  Instead, twice a day, she took a deep breath, said a heartfelt prayer and trod the treacherous path.
    More groaning and popping sounded beneath her feet.  She took comfort in knowing the much larger Gurn had climbed these same stairs countless times and not come to a bad end.  Her luck might not be so good.  The banister almost splintered beneath her grip.  She pictured herself stumbling and pitching head first over the broken railing.  She’d be of little use to Cumbria as his watcher if Silhara discovered her splayed dead on the floor of his great hall.  Nor did she think he’d be pleased.  The hall sported decayed furniture, soot-blackened walls and a cold hearth.  Abandoned and eerie, yes, but not littered with corpses as part of the décor.  As far she knew.  She didn’t want to ponder what oddities lurked in this place.
    She sighed with relief at the bottom of the stairs.  Cael waited for her, growling his disapproval at her slowness.  She shrugged.  “I’m not half so nimble as you, Cael.”  She wrinkled her nose at the odor wafting off his fur.  “Nor half as smelly.”  He growled again and led her to the kitchen.
    Gurn might not have much interest in tidying the rest of the manor, but he took pride in his kitchen.  Pristine and uncluttered, the chamber practically sparkled.  No unwashed pots or dishes were stacked in the dry sink; no livestock wandered about, no hunting hounds sprawled at the cooking hearth.
    Battered cupboards placed against a far wall held an array of chipped dishes and stacks of pots and bowls.  Fans of dried sage and rosemary hung next to chains of garlic from a low beam near the dry sink.  A shallow bowl of oranges stacked in a neat tower shared space with loaves of cooling bread on a table by one window. The preparation table, dented and