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The Master of
Crows was a caustic, temperamental man with a razor tongue and no
hesitation in using it to flay someone bloody. Sometimes though, he
blunted its edge a little, offering a sharp wit instead that
encouraged a laugh and made a day such as this one less
frightening.
    She returned to her work table with its stacks
of books and notes she’d taken earlier. Open the gate. Open the
gate. She tapped the tip of her quill on her lower lip. Was the
temple the gate? Ferrin’s Tor with its standing menhirs was a type
of gate and one she and Silhara had used to reach Corruption’s
domain and kill the god. The temple might be a lesser gate. Such
weren’t uncommon, and those always contained an element that
anchored two worlds together—some artifact or spellwork that drew
one side to the other through ritual or invocation.
    Her Gift might have acted as a beacon to the
entity, but she hadn’t recited any invocation or traced the precise
and measured steps of a ritual circle. If an ensorcelled gem or
prayer bowl were buried there, Silhara’s plan to burn the ruin and
salt the ground would destroy whatever link bound Neith to an
unknown darkness.
    Martise glanced at Silhara who clung
precariously to the ladder. “What do you know of the histories of
the ruins in your woodland?”
    Nimble as a cat, he descended the rungs,
scrolls tucked under his arms. “Almost nothing. They’ve been here
as long as Neith itself as far as I know. Some are human-built;
some aren’t. The one we’re concerned with isn’t. An Elder creation
I think, but it’s anyone’s guess as to which race.” He dropped the
scrolls on the table cattycorner to hers. “You think this ruin is
an anchor?”
    “ Maybe.” She shuffled through her
notes. “Your library surely has something about the structures
built in the wood. I’d like to learn a little about this one before
you tear it down.”
    Silhara gave her a disapproving stare. “It’s
too dangerous to leave standing for scholarly pursuits, Martise.
The moment the effects of your Gift wear off and I have better
control of my power, I’m turning that heap into a dust pile. The
sooner, the better.”
    “ You’ll get no argument from me,”
she said. “I hope you turn them all into dust piles.”
    He unrolled one of the scrolls and held it
down at the corners with flat river rock. “That’s my intention. I
don’t like unexpected human guests at Neith, much less demonic
ones.”
    The library fell silent except for the scratch
of Martise’s quill as she jotted down notes and occasional
mutterings from Silhara as he perused lists of spells. She watched
him from the corner of her eye. He searched for the combination of
invocations that would dismantle not only the temple’s physical
structure but its ethereal net as well and do so without killing
himself. The knitted lines between his eyebrows as he glowered at
one scroll told her he wasn’t yet successful in his search. Tiny
sparks of red light shot off his fingertips as his narrow hands
moved in unconscious motion, sketching sigils and signs in the air.
Her Gift had fueled his magery, turning a bonfire into an inferno.
Infinitely powerful and just as unpredictable. Any spellwork he did
while his magic sang with her Gift’s force required immense control
and caution.
    Her own research yielded better results. A
dozen books and countless scrolls later, and she probably knew more
now about the history of Silhara’s home than he did, and the
knowledge guaranteed several sleepless night.
    There had once been more than a dozen temples
or ritual sites within the woodland that obscured Neith’s front
façade. The wood itself had spread over more acreage as well,
giving way over time to the plains. Of the five temples that
remained in their various stages of abandoned decay, the one she’d
visited that morning was the oldest, and as Silhara had mentioned
earlier, built by those who weren’t human.
    The mage stopped her as she returned to one