Night Study (Soulfinders #2) - Maria V. Snyder Page 0,2
solidified. The biggest one pushed all the others to the side, and I rested my hands on my lower abdomen.
A baby.
No. Valek was right. Stress and trauma had upset my monthly cycles before. This time was no different. Besides, the moon potion had worked for eight years; no reason to doubt its potency now.
A baby.
Fear stirred in my chest. I couldn’t be pregnant. Not now. Assassins had been hired to kill me, I had no magic and Owen Moon—a dangerous and powerful magician who also wanted me dead—was at large. Plus this new girl, Onora—yet another assassin—was after Valek’s job as Ixia’s security chief. And he had dozens of enemies.
Then again, I couldn’t imagine our lives ever settling down enough for the timing to be perfect. A child of ours would never be safe. But no need to jump to conclusions just yet. As Valek had said, time will tell.
And if I wasn’t...?
It’d be for the best. Yet a faint pang of disappointment poked my chest at the thought. Silly.
When the water turned lukewarm, I grabbed my soap. Careful of the scabbed-over rope burns and multicolored bruises around my wrists and ankles, I scrubbed off a few layers of grime. Old scars crisscrossed my stomach, ribs, legs and arms. I’d seen more than my share of action. The newest scar, a roundish shape just below my left clavicle, had been made by the first assassin’s arrow just a month ago.
I fingered the ridges, remembering the force of the impact that had knocked me from Kiki’s back. The shaft had been filled with an unknown liquid poison. My magic expelled most of the drug—or so I’d thought—and healed the wound. That had been the last time I drew from the blanket of power that surrounded the world and fueled a magician’s magic. Once I recovered from the injury, Valek and I enjoyed the remaining day of our vacation before he left for Ixia. That morning, the symptoms of the poison began, and I spent the day suffering from intense hot and cold flashes. When they finally ceased, my ability to draw power was gone.
A delay between poisoning and the onset of the symptoms was not unheard-of. Many assassins liked to be well away before anyone suspected foul play. Yet in this case, shooting a victim with an arrow was far from subtle. I considered. The poison may have nothing to do with my blocked magic. Perhaps it was just added insurance, in case the assassin missed my heart. My ability to drain the substance from my wound then turned a lethal dose into a sick day in bed. That scenario implied there was another cause.
Conception? If I was with child, the timing coincided. But again, if magicians lost their powers while pregnant, it’d be well-known. Unless, as Valek had said, there was some quirk in the magic. Perhaps First Magician Bain Bloodgood would know, or he could search through his history books for a reference to a similar occurrence. It’d be too dangerous to send him a message right now, and it might be a bit premature at this point. Once I had confirmation of my condition, then I’d talk to Bain.
Clean, I rinsed off the soap and dressed in record time. My stomach growled, so I searched for something to eat. No surprise that my brother, Leif, stood at the kitchen’s long counter with his hands in a large metal mixing bowl.
Leif was never far from the food.
His strong forearms flexed as he kneaded the dough. About six inches taller than me, his broad shoulders and square jaw gave him a stocky appearance, but despite being obsessed with eating, it was all muscle under his brown tunic.
“You going to stand there all day?” Leif asked without glancing in my direction. His magic sensed a person’s proximity, as well as intentions, moods and guilt. He frequently aided the Sitian Council in their investigations.
“I’m still recovering from the shock of seeing you cook.”
He grunted. “Who do you think has been feeding you the last four days?”
I stepped into the spacious kitchen. A mammoth stone hearth comprised the entire far wall. Coals glowed red-hot under a large-sized white brick oven, above which hung an assortment of black iron pots. The scent of baking bread filled the air. A long wooden table with seating for at least two dozen bisected the room.
“I know you’re famous for your wet-dog tea and rabbit stew, but I thought you’d rather eat other people’s cooking.”