The Brush of Black Wings Read Online Free PDF Page B

smile belied the cold
gleam in his eyes. “I’ll be the most dangerous thing in the wood.
Whatever might linger there will regret trying with me what it
tried with you.”
    He left for the temple with Cael in tow while
Martise helped Gurn scrub pots and dishes and carry firewood into
the kitchen. She didn’t argue when he shooed her off afterwards,
eager to ransack Neith’s extensive library for any information that
might give a clue about her would-be abductor.
    Without the heat of a hearth to warm it, the
library was colder than a tomb. Martise had wrapped in her cloak
and slipped on gloves before leaving the kitchen, but she still
shivered in the room’s vast space. Her breath fogged in front of
her, and a thin layer of ice painted the windows, obscuring the
landscape.
    She had lived at Neith first as both
apprentice and spy and then wife to the man she’d come to betray.
In that time, she’d only explored a fraction of the books and
scrolls stored in the library. Conclave’s own library was
considered a wonder of the known world, and as a novitiate, Martise
had spent many hours researching, learning and receiving lessons
from the priests. They were the stolen moments she held dear of her
time with the priesthood, but nothing compared to her joy in
digging freely through this treasure trove of knowledge. Somewhere
in here lay clues to the entity who had tried first by coaxing, and
then by force, to bring her into the temple with him.
    Dust billowed in clouds around her as she
removed a selection of tomes and scrolls from the various shelves
and took up her favorite spot to study the words written by scribes
and mages long passed.
    The tallow candle she lit swirled tendrils of
pungent black smoke in the air but did an adequate job of
illuminating the faded script on yellowed parchment. Martise
scratched out notes with her quill on her own stack of parchment.
Words spoken in eerie intonations seemed less obscure once she
wrote them down.
    Kashaptu, mi peti
babka.
    Only one of the words seemed vaguely familiar,
and then just a portion of it. Martise returned to the shelves,
pulling out books until she found two she wanted. All words had
roots, foundations upon which languages were built and transformed.
The scribes of Conclave always taught that first to the novitiates,
a way to grasp all languages and spells, even if it wasn’t the
student’s mother tongue. Martise put that training to
use.
    The Makkadians were not known for great magic,
but they were famous as beast masters. Raptors, bears, big
cats—trained and put to use in matters of war and pageantry for any
kingdom willing to pay the price for their expertise in
beast-charming. The Makkadians were especially famous for breeding
and training magefinders and called them kashkuli —witch
hunters.
    Martise prayed the path she followed in this
research was the right one. If not, then she was about to waste
hours of time trying to decipher the strange words whose echo still
sent chills down her spine.
    The ringing of the kitchen bell signaled lunch
a few hours later, and she left the library, frozen to the bone,
fingers stiff from the cold and copious amounts of note-taking.
Silhara and Cael strode through the bailey door just as Gurn set a
much welcomed bowl of hot stew in front of her.
    Snowflakes dusted Silhara’s eyelashes, quickly
melting until they streamed down his face like tears. He wiped at
them impatiently and tossed his damp cloak and gloves on the drying
rack near the hearth. His gaze sought Martise. “You found
something,” he said abruptly.
    She raised her tea cup in salute. “I did. What
about you?”
    He shook his head, dropping onto the bench
next to her. “Nothing if you’re only looking with your main senses.
Not even a thrum of magery, which in its way is odd.” He accepted
the cup of tea Gurn handed him with a nod of thanks. “All the ruins
in the woods are old, that one more ancient than most. The earth
holds the ghosts of rituals.