Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,122
a butterfly’s wings.
“Nelle,” he whispered, his voice low, ragged.
“Yes,” she answered and lifted her hand to press her palm against his cheek. “Yes, Soran—”
A shock like lightning shot through his spine. The mage drew a horrible gasping breath, and his arms pulled away, his hands closing over her bare shoulders as he pushed her roughly from him. She staggered down two steps, nearly fell, and backed against the wall to brace herself. “Soran!” she cried.
He had already turned away, already staggered several more paces up the stairway, his shoulders bent, his breathing labored. “I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t fall prey to your illusions. And I won’t hurt her. I won’t.”
Nelle stared at him. Then she realized. “No, Soran!” She tried to gather herself, to follow him. “It’s me! I swear! I’m not a dream or an illusion! I’m—”
“No.” He glared at her, his face half wild behind long strands of white hair. “Don’t toy with me, Helenia.” He drew a strained breath between clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring. “I won’t be the monster. Not anymore.”
He wrenched away and fled up the stairs, two treads at a time. Nelle tried to follow, but her knees gave out, and she sank heavily on the cold stone, her hands grasping for anything she might hold onto for support. “Soran!” she called one more time.
He didn’t respond. She listened to his footsteps climb the tower until she heard the distant door of his upper chamber slam. Then she bowed over, pressed her face into her hands, and wept.
If ever she had earned the right to a fit of uncontrollable weeping, now was that time. What with being kidnapped by a dark fae, chased by shadow-monsters, skull-dogs, and harpens, nearly killed by a Noswraith, and set adrift on an otherworldly ocean without hope of help . . . if all that wasn’t reason enough for a girl to shed a few tears, she didn’t know what was.
Nelle eventually pulled herself together, feeling hollow, tired, and no better at all. Her head throbbed. Should have considered that before you gave way to all that tearfulness, she thought bitterly, wiping her damp cheeks, then rubbing her temples ruefully.
A cold breeze through the open door danced across her bare skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake and shocking her back to herself. Sitting upright, Nelle rubbed her arms, muttered a curse through her lips, then rose stiffly and returned to the armoire to rummage through Soran’s garments. Most were covered with rips and old bloodstains, but she found one shirt and pair of trousers a little better off than the others.
Her fingers fumbled for some while, trying to discover how to get out of her corset garment, but she managed it at last. She let the whole ghastly contraption fall to the floor at her feet and stepped out of it with a shudder.
Looking down, she caught a glimmer of gold amid the dark silk. Swiftly she bent to pick up the locket, then looped it around her neck. For a long moment she simply stood there, holding it tight in her fist, breathing deeply.
Then, with another quick shake of her head, she began to dress, pausing to inspect the wound in her side where the tree branch had partially impaled her. Dried blood crusted her skin, but the wound itself was already mostly healed. It ached when she reached her arms up to pull Soran’s shirt over her head. But only a little.
The mage’s trousers were much too big. She found a bit of rope to fashion a crude belt, tied the billowing shirt comfortably around her waist, then rolled up two fat cuffs around her ankles. Far from fashionable, but it felt good to be clothed again.
Regarding the pile of dark fabric on the floor, Nelle curled her lip in distaste. She stoked up a blaze in the fireplace and, as soon as it was hot enough, added the corset and silks. Perched on the stool, using the poker to stir up the embers, she watched the garment burn down. The stink of burnt silk filled the air.
If only she could as easily rid herself of all memory of Kyriakos and the darkness of Ninthalor.
Ibrildian . . .
Hybrid . . .
Had the fae lord told her the truth? Or were his strange proclamations merely another layer of his pervasive seduction? Had he been attempting to drive a wedge of doubt into her heart, to make her distrust Soran and draw her more firmly toward himself?
Or was it real?
Nelle wrapped her arms around her middle. Her physical eyes watched flames eat away the last of the silk and blacken the corset boning. But in her mind’s eye, she fled from the Thorn Maiden through the dark tunnel and into the brilliance of the quinsatra. She felt again the power flowing through her as she worked Soran’s incredible spell—a spell she had no business even looking at, much less attempting.
“Ibrildian,” she whispered, and drew a long, careful breath. What other explanation could there be?
But why had Soran kept the truth from her?
“Because he ain’t to be trusted.” The words slipped out softly, laced with bitterness. “Because he’s a Miphato. A crazed, lunatic Miphato. And you . . . you should know better than to trust a man like him. You should know better than to . . . than to . . .”
She closed her eyes, feeling once more the sensation of his lips pressed against the top of her head. And that moment—a moment of heat and sweetness beyond anything she’d ever before experienced—when she let her lips touch his and thought, truly thought he would respond with the passion she’d felt stirring in his limbs, stirring in his soul.
Foolishness. Pure idiocy. Her terrifying experiences had made her vulnerable, even desperate, and she’d reached out to him without thinking. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Her hand moved to the locket hidden beneath Soran’s borrowed shirt. It was cold and smooth under her fingertips. “One dose,” she whispered. “Only one.”
She wouldn’t waste it. And she wouldn’t waste time either. The next time she heard Soran’s footsteps on the stair, the next time he showed his face, she would do what she had come to do.
Nelle stood up. The fire was too hot, and the stink of burning corset boning made her feel sick. She hastened across the chamber to the open doorway and stood there, looking out across the cliff, across the sweep of sky, across the Hinter Sea. The blue wyvern, which had been sunbathing belly-up on the doorstep, twisted around, chirruped, and scuttled to her, rubbing around her shins. She ignored it.
Instead, she fixed her gaze on the Evenspire, feeling almost as though she could see Gaspard’s face looming in the distance. Almost as though she sensed his hand beckoning her to him.
“Soon,” she whispered. “I’ll do what I came for. I swear.”
THE END
Coming soon:
The Scarred Mage of Roseward
Book 3: Wraith
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Thank you so much for taking the time to read book 1 of The Scarred Mage of Roseward Trilogy. This story was such a delight to write, and I hope you thoroughly enjoyed the adventure!
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Sylvia Mercedes
Sylvia Mercedes makes her home in the idyllic North Carolina countryside with her Handsome Husband, sweet Young Lady, the Tiny Gentleman, and Gummy Bear, the Toothless Wonder Cat. When she’s not writing she’s . . . okay, let’s be honest. When she’s not writing, she’s running around after her little girl, cleaning up glitter, trying to plan healthy-ish meals, and wondering where she left her phone. In between, she reads a steady diet of fantasy novels.
But mostly she’s writing.
After a short career in Traditional Publishing (under a different name), Sylvia decided to take the plunge into the Indie Publishing World and is enjoying every minute of it.