Read Online Master of Crows by Grace Draven - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Grace Draven
Ads: Link
accepted Gurn’s silent assessment of her morning’s work or not, no compliment was forthcoming. She stiffened when he returned.
“Are you afraid of heights?”
“No,” she said softly, schooling her features into a placid expression. “I’m not.”
“Good. You can help me in the grove while Gurn prepares our midday meal. Put on your satchel.” He waited while she adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “If I remember correctly, the bishop grows olives on his land.”
When had Silhara ever had occasion to visit Cumbria at Asher? She'd never seen him there, and she had served the manor and its master since she was seven years old. But he was correct. The olive groves at Asher were many times the size of Silhara's small orchard.
“Does he still bring Conclave novitiates to harvest as unpaid labor?” His mouth turned up in a faint sneer, which changed to a grudging smile. “He’s a skinflint, but a shrewd one. If I employed the same technique, Gurn would be able to feed me grapes all day.”
Martise clenched her teeth harder, this time to suppress a laugh. Whatever his faults, the Master of Crows knew much about the High Bishop’s miserly ways. Each harvest season Cumbria brought novitiates to his groves to help harvest the crops. He used the excuse they could practice their motion spells to shake the trees free of their fruit and gather them in the waiting cloths.
“That custom remains.”
He snorted. “I thought so.” His expression darkened. “I don’t hold with the practice. Magery has its place in the world, but not as a means to an easy life. And whether Cumbria acknowledges it or not, those spells damage his trees. I’ll have none of that here. We do it the hard way—as the nongifted do—with ladders, bags and sore backs.” He raked her with a glance. “There isn’t much to you, apprentice. I doubt you’ll be any help.”
She stiffened, indignant at his assumption. “I’m stronger than I look, Master, and I take direction well.”
He didn’t look convinced. “We’ll see.” He slapped Gurn on the shoulder and walked away to retrieve another ladder lying on the ground near the crates. “I’ll take her now, Gurn. Signal when lunch is ready.”
Gurn patted Martise on the arm and strode back to the house. She froze at Silhara’s forbidding stare.
“You’ve gained my servant’s trust. Don’t abuse it.”
Apprehension ran cold in her veins. The warning was a thinly veiled threat, ominous in its promise of deadly retribution if she took advantage of Gurn. Whether Silhara felt some affection for his servant or demanded his loyalty at all costs, she knew her interaction with Gurn was crucial to her survival here at Neith.
“I am not an unkind woman. I like Gurn as well.”
His cold gaze didn’t warm. “Keep that in mind, and any sense of self-preservation you may harbor.”
She swallowed and hurried after him as he took the second ladder and carried it to another tree farther down the row. He leaned the ladder against the drooping branches, and a fluster of crows bolted upward, cawing in protest at being chased from their shaded haven.
“You’ll find a pair of gloves in your satchel.” He raised his hands, displaying well-worn gloves with thinning patches and stains on the palms. “Orange trees sport thorns as long as your fingers, and they’re wicked sharp.”
She reached into the satchel and found an equally worn pair. They were too big, but not so large that they made her clumsy. Silhara came to stand in front of her, and Martise almost forgot to breathe. This close to him she was bombarded by a multitude of sensations—the scent of citrus and orange blossom laced with the musky heat of perspiration, the quiet rhythm of his breathing as he helped her adjust the gloves, and above all, the tingling flow of his Gift, pouring off him like water from a fast-running stream.
Silhara tightened
“Are you afraid of heights?”
“No,” she said softly, schooling her features into a placid expression. “I’m not.”
“Good. You can help me in the grove while Gurn prepares our midday meal. Put on your satchel.” He waited while she adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “If I remember correctly, the bishop grows olives on his land.”
When had Silhara ever had occasion to visit Cumbria at Asher? She'd never seen him there, and she had served the manor and its master since she was seven years old. But he was correct. The olive groves at Asher were many times the size of Silhara's small orchard.
“Does he still bring Conclave novitiates to harvest as unpaid labor?” His mouth turned up in a faint sneer, which changed to a grudging smile. “He’s a skinflint, but a shrewd one. If I employed the same technique, Gurn would be able to feed me grapes all day.”
Martise clenched her teeth harder, this time to suppress a laugh. Whatever his faults, the Master of Crows knew much about the High Bishop’s miserly ways. Each harvest season Cumbria brought novitiates to his groves to help harvest the crops. He used the excuse they could practice their motion spells to shake the trees free of their fruit and gather them in the waiting cloths.
“That custom remains.”
He snorted. “I thought so.” His expression darkened. “I don’t hold with the practice. Magery has its place in the world, but not as a means to an easy life. And whether Cumbria acknowledges it or not, those spells damage his trees. I’ll have none of that here. We do it the hard way—as the nongifted do—with ladders, bags and sore backs.” He raked her with a glance. “There isn’t much to you, apprentice. I doubt you’ll be any help.”
She stiffened, indignant at his assumption. “I’m stronger than I look, Master, and I take direction well.”
He didn’t look convinced. “We’ll see.” He slapped Gurn on the shoulder and walked away to retrieve another ladder lying on the ground near the crates. “I’ll take her now, Gurn. Signal when lunch is ready.”
Gurn patted Martise on the arm and strode back to the house. She froze at Silhara’s forbidding stare.
“You’ve gained my servant’s trust. Don’t abuse it.”
Apprehension ran cold in her veins. The warning was a thinly veiled threat, ominous in its promise of deadly retribution if she took advantage of Gurn. Whether Silhara felt some affection for his servant or demanded his loyalty at all costs, she knew her interaction with Gurn was crucial to her survival here at Neith.
“I am not an unkind woman. I like Gurn as well.”
His cold gaze didn’t warm. “Keep that in mind, and any sense of self-preservation you may harbor.”
She swallowed and hurried after him as he took the second ladder and carried it to another tree farther down the row. He leaned the ladder against the drooping branches, and a fluster of crows bolted upward, cawing in protest at being chased from their shaded haven.
“You’ll find a pair of gloves in your satchel.” He raised his hands, displaying well-worn gloves with thinning patches and stains on the palms. “Orange trees sport thorns as long as your fingers, and they’re wicked sharp.”
She reached into the satchel and found an equally worn pair. They were too big, but not so large that they made her clumsy. Silhara came to stand in front of her, and Martise almost forgot to breathe. This close to him she was bombarded by a multitude of sensations—the scent of citrus and orange blossom laced with the musky heat of perspiration, the quiet rhythm of his breathing as he helped her adjust the gloves, and above all, the tingling flow of his Gift, pouring off him like water from a fast-running stream.
Silhara tightened
Similar Books
