Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,72

for he would need to complete the binding the moment the Thorn Maiden retreated. He pushed his chair back and crouched before one of the boxes tucked away under the desk. Inside were books—beautiful books, exquisitely bound in tooled leather, not the schoolboy’s volumes he kept stashed away in the armoire down below. These were his greater spells.

Many of them were already used up, spent, but there remained a handful of spells he’d been saving for just such a time.

He picked up one volume and quickly paged through it. He knew which spells he wanted. How many times had he reviewed this scenario in his head, trying to mentally prepare for the battles he knew would come? Using great care, he tore two strong spells free of the binding. Folding these, he tucked them into his robes alongside the Rose Book.

Then, pulling his hood over his head, Soran rose and made for the stair. The weight of coming battle on his spirit bowed his shoulders as he descended with quick steps. He didn’t even think about Nelle until he neared the opening in the ceiling. There he paused for a moment, one hand pressed against the curved tower wall, and listened. He expected to hear sounds from the chamber below, some indication of her presence.

All was silent.

His heartbeat quickened. His nostrils flared.

Lunging down the last stretch of the stair, Soran emerged through the ceiling and peered into the chamber. The wyvern sat by the door, its wings slumped dejectedly, its long neck coiled back, and its beady little eyes fixed on the latch. It looked around at Soran, uttering a miserable bleat.

“Seven gods damn!” Soran sprang down the last steps into the room. What was she thinking? What was she damned well thinking? Had she heard nothing of the warnings he’d given her? What could possibly have possessed her to venture out into that Night?

Something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but neither could he deny it. She was up to something. What, exactly, he couldn’t begin to guess. But she wasn’t stupid, he knew that well enough. She might sometimes play the flighty-headed waif, but he had seen through that act long ago. He knew how keen, how sharp a mind she possessed. She wouldn’t act rashly without some motivation.

She was out there. Alone.

While the Thorn Maiden inched her way into this reality.

“Get back,” Soran snarled as he shoved the wyvern away from the door. It scurried away to hide under the table, burbling miserably. Soran pulled the door open and gasped at the blast of pure Night waiting outside. Darker than the darkest midnight, all but impenetrable.

Cursing, he shut the door again and hastily crossed to the armoire. He needed a seeing spell to help him navigate that darkness. He grabbed a book and hastily paged through until he found the spell he needed, then held it up and forced his voice to be steady as he read it off: “Ilrune petmenor. Mythanar prey sarlenna sior . . .”

Reaching the end of the spell, he let his eyes close. There, behind his eyelids, he saw the Nightmare overlaying Roseward. It was dark, but with a different kind of darkness than the Night of Noxaur. This was a cold, shimmering darkness, full of energy and dread. There was no color, no life. But he wasn’t blind here. He could navigate this world.

Keeping his physical eyes shut, Soran placed the little book inside his robes alongside the Rose Book and the two weapon spells. The wyvern uttered a sad little bray as Soran moved to the door. Pausing with his hand on the latch, he looked back to meet the creature’s eyes.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “I promise. I’ll bring her back.”

Then he stepped outside and faced the world.

Seen through the rippling nightmare vision, Noxaur’s shore looked dangerously close. The waters of the channel were harsh and lethal. But even with his eyes lit with spell vision, Soran could perceive no detail on that landscape—no cities, no towns, no indication of life. It was nothing but darkness. A realm of monsters.

Monsters like Kyriakos.

Repressing a curse, Soran hastened along the cliff path. Harsh winds blasted his robes, whipping his hood back across his shoulders and snarling through his hair. He tucked his head down and ran all-out. Around him the nightmarish semidarkness of the Noswraith’s world simmered with malice, but he wasn’t in that world. He could perceive it, but nothing dwelling within could perceive him