Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,105
but also something that gleamed with the bright luminosity of the quinsatra.
A spell thread. A connection.
Seven gods! He’d almost forgotten about that ring.
The thread brightened by the moment, a line of fire through the air. It cut straight through the invisible deflection curse, and Soran felt the curse fray on the edges, giving way before the stronger magic.
“Nelle,” he whispered.
His strength revived. Since the spell wasn’t something that could be seen with physical eyes, he turned in his seat without hesitation and rowed hard, with the thread’s burning pull leading him straight and true.
Within minutes, the last of the deflection curse melted away.
As soon as it was gone, the Night of Noxaur deepened. Soran had thought it couldn’t get any darker than it already was, but he swiftly discovered his error. Total blindness held him captive. He had to turn around, row back to where the dark was not quite so complete, and, still mostly blind, withdraw the smaller book of spells he’d brought with him and find a vision spell. He read it off quickly and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt his pupils dilate, taking in and amplifying even the smallest traces of light.
When he crossed the line again, the Night was no longer so absolute. He pressed on, following the summoning spell, and soon the little boat’s hull crunched into gritty shoreline. Soran sprang out, dragged it up onto the shore, and faced what lay before him.
Ninthalor.
The infamous seaside palace sat high on sheer crags above the shoreline, looming over the landscape. Its many peaked rooftops and spiraling towers looked as though they had been carved out of the cliffs themselves, which truly might be the case. Some said Ninthalor had been a troll citadel long ago, before the fae came and populated Noxaur. Many strange stories and dark legends abounded in both Eledria and the realms of mortals. Kyriakos was neither the first nor the most dreadful lord to rule this citadel.
But he was certainly bad enough.
The spell thread glittered through the darkness, leading straight across that bare landscape to where the ground began to rise in rocky formations. A single road wound up to the fortress gates. No one could approach those gates without being spotted from the many watch towers. Sentries may have already announced Soran’s arrival to their lord.
Let them.
His hand trembled more than he liked as he reached for the Rose Book. For a moment he simply stood with the waves of the Hinter lapping at his feet and gazed at the once-beautiful binding. The gold-leaf decoration on the cover had peeled away over time, and the spine was frayed on the edges, the red leather battered, the creases nearly white with wear. He felt the volume’s frailty as he had never felt it before . . . and the futility of attempting to contain so much magic, so much power, in a mere physical form.
What he was about to do, would it be more than the book could survive? He had only ever worked the spell in this way once before—on the night of its creation. Since then he had only bound and re-bound the power within. Would unleashing it mean the end? Would the Rose Book disintegrate under the strain?
Soran drew a slow breath. Then he unbuckled the straps, opened the book across his forearm, and held it up before his magicked eyes. He could only just discern the words.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
She was there. At his side, her lips close to his ear. Invisible but ever-present.
Oh, my love, my love! Let me out. Let me loose. Let me be what I was always meant to be.
He must take care. He must maintain control. It was a balance, a treacherous balance. One word read inaccurately, one little slip of tongue or mind, and all would be lost.
Don’t hold back! I am ready. I am ready to do all that you send me to do!
He felt her hands grasping his shoulders, eager and tense. Her thirst for blood was terrifying.
Soran closed his eyes. Then, firming his stance, he opened his eyes and stared intently at those words. Let them burn into his mind, let the power burst forth from the page as it had not done in all the years of his imprisonment! He began to read aloud, letting the words fill the air around him, and under the influence of his voice they changed, twisted, became true to their nature.