Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,118

you see,” she said at last. “The Hinter Sea was rough between Wimborne and the Noxaur shore. I wanted to give him a chance to recover a little before he tried to make his way home again. I thought . . . I thought if you knew he was here, you’d send him back right away.”

“Did you?”

She blinked, frowned, and shut her mouth tight as though afraid of what she might say next. But she needn’t have worried. Her actions spoke loudly enough. They clearly proclaimed exactly what she thought of him: uncaring, unfeeling. A monster.

And did he deserve higher regard from her? He, who had knowingly allowed her to be led into the very path of Kyriakos? He, who had deliberately unleashed the most horrific monster on people wholly unable to defend themselves? Every scar marring his face bore testimony to the far more hideous scarring of his soul.

She knew. He couldn’t disguise the truth from her.

In truth, he couldn’t say whether he would have given the stranger shelter had she asked him. He might have taken one look at that handsome face, might have observed one moment of the interactions between the two of them—both so fresh, so unspoiled, so unconsciously beautiful and full of promise, a perfect match in every possible way—and find it more than he could bear. Even now, if he had a spell lethal enough remaining on his person, he would be far too tempted to use it. To hurl a bolt straight at that handsome, youthful face.

“S-Sam?” Nelle had whispered when waking to Soran’s kiss.

What further confirmation did he need of the relationship between them?

Soran looked down at his feet where the Rose Book lay, battered but still miraculously whole, one edge of its cover touching the shallow bilgewater. He bent, picked it up, tucked it under his arm. Then he climbed out of the boat. His body roared in pain with every move he made. He welcomed that pain. It was far less than he deserved. And already the air of Roseward worked its healing magic. He would have a new collection of scars across his person to commemorate his most recent sins.

Nelle drew herself up a little straighter as he limped toward her up the beach, her chin set, her throat constricting as she tried to swallow. He did not meet her eyes but looked ahead, beyond the young man.

When he drew alongside her, Nelle reached out, almost but not quite touching his arm. “Sir?” she said quietly.

Soran stopped. “Your friend must go. Now.” He dared let his eyes flick sideways, seeking her face, but couldn’t bear to look at her for more than an instant. “And you should go with him.”

He faced forward again. “Take care that you practice no magic when you return to the city. The Miphates won’t like it. They will track you down. You would be wise to quit Wimborne altogether.”

With those words and nothing more, he picked up his pace, ignoring the agony in his stiffened limbs, and hastened up the beach, past the young man. Overhead, the wyverns danced and sang, joyous at his return. But he could scarcely hear them.

Blood pulsed in his ears, and he thought he heard instead the Thorn Maiden’s voice whisper in the back of his head: My love . . . my love . . . you were always meant to be mine . . .

Nelle faced out to sea while listening to Soran’s retreating footsteps. At first she beheld only a swimming haze of dawn light and indistinct shadows, but eventually she realized that the shore of Noxaur was no longer in sight. Instead, she faced open Hinter waters and even glimpsed the Evenspire through filmy clouds.

Tears stung her eyes. She hastily blinked them back—it was the salt-laden wind in her face, nothing more. Sniffing hard, she shook her head, struggling to gather her thoughts.

“Nelle?” Sam’s voice quavered as he approached behind her. “Are you all right?” His hand rested on her shoulder, warm and heavy through the rough fabric of the mage’s borrowed robe.

“Fine, Sam.” Nelle shook off his hand, took a step or two away, and turned to face him. “I’m fine,” she said. “And Mage Silveri is right. You’ve got to go. Now.”

Sam’s dark eyes scanned her face, full of questions she feared he would ask. “Yes,” he said slowly. “He is right. And you should come with me.”

A sharp, stabbing longing filled her. A desire to reach out, to take Sam’s hand, to