Part 8 (2/2)

He shook his head, banis.h.i.+ng the image. There were better things to think of. His wife waited at home, still asleep. That made him frown. Martise was normally an early riser, excruciatingly energetic and cheerful, even before the dawn sun broke the horizon. For the past two nights, she'd gone to bed early, claiming exhaustion and slept deeply, not waking until well into the morning and only because Silhara coaxed her out of bed with tea.

He couldn't shake the worry plaguing him, and his stride lengthened as he made his way through the wood toward the manor.

He found her still asleep in their bed, buried under blankets until only the top of her head was exposed to the room's cold temperatures. Silhara stoked the brazier to life and paused to scrutinize her still form.

She had a.s.sured him the day before she felt fine, just worn out, as if she'd toiled in the orchard for days on end. Silhara had looked to Gurn who only shrugged, as clueless as he was about Martise's exhaustion. It might well be their time on the gray plane had somehow drained her, but Silhara had his doubts. Her weariness seemed sudden and extreme, separate from anything born of dark magic, and he'd sensed none of the black arcana on her. In fact, the spells he cast to reveal any hidden malice flattened and faded, as if she wore some invisible armor that resisted, if not completely repelled sorcery. If she didn't return to her old self in the next few days, he'd resort to more extreme measures.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She didn't stir, and he left her to slumber peacefully in the slowly warming chamber.

Gurn nodded to him as he pa.s.sed the kitchen on the way to his study. Unlike his bedroom or the frozen pit that was the library, the study welcomed him with a heated embrace. Gurn had visited earlier and started a fire in the small hearth built in one corner. Flames flickered in lit oil lamps, casting a golden light across a table littered with scattered parchment, scrolls, ink wells and quills.

Silhara raised the wick on the lamps perched on the table, watching as their flames stretched higher and brightened the s.p.a.ce. He sat down in the chair behind the table, dragged a piece of parchment towards him and dipped a sharpened quill into the closest ink well.

He had made no promises to the Wraith King beyond the agreement to help him escape the gray plane if he wished, but he'd made a promise to himself, and it was as much to purge his mind of the bitter draught of another man's memories as it was to correct the wrongs of history.

The scratch of the quill joined the pop and crackle of kindling consumed by the fire in the hearth as Silhara committed to print what had been lost or twisted over centuries of time.

A Recounting of the Wraith King Wars As Written by Silhara of Neith, Master of Crows The king who dwelled in darkness led the dead to conquer the d.a.m.ned.

Five kings made spirit, bound to the sword.

The king is the sword. The sword is the king.

~END~.

Discover other t.i.tles by Grace Draven.

Master of Crows.

Radiance Entreat Me.

All the Stars Look Down.

The Lightning G.o.d's Wife.

Drago Illuminare Draconus.

Wyvern.

Arena.

Courting Bathsheba.

The Light Within.

end.

<script>