Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,14
She didn’t want to kiss him. That is . . . Nelle frowned and brushed the back of her hand across her nose. She didn’t want to poison him. But if the opportunity arose, she must take it.
“Bullspit,” she muttered again and suddenly reached for one of the vanity drawers, yanking it open so hard the mirror rattled in its frame. She fumbled around, searching for a comb or some hairpins, something she might use to tidy her snarl of hair. If she was going to pretend to be a lady, she’d best make a thorough job of it. She reached further back into the drawer.
Her fingers touched something cold, hard, smooth. And a chain.
Curious, Nelle pulled out a gold necklace that glinted even in the partial light. It was a locket, an oval locket etched with a blooming rose on the front. Nelle turned it over in her fingers several times before snapping it open to see a delicate plait of hair set inside the tiny frame: black hair braided with strands of gold. The opposite side held an inscription delicately written in a precise hand. Nelle had to bring the locket quite close to her face to make it out.
Eternally yours
SS
“SS,” Nelle whispered softly. “Soran Silveri?” She touched the plait of hair with the tip of one finger.
And she wondered.
“Hold still,” Soran muttered.
The wyvern flared its crest in defiance and rolled a beady eye up at the mage. Heaving a great sigh, it settled down, its nose hanging over the edge of the table, its wounded wing spread out before Soran.
With a last stern look at the wyvern, Soran bent over its wing. He saw it as a wing, of course—the pale blue, membranous skin shot through with delicate purple veins. But he also saw the underlying spell, the parchment and ink by which the wyvern had been brought to life. By his own hand.
The wing was badly torn, pierced through by the unicorn’s savage horn. And the parchment on which the spell was written was torn as well. Soran studied both closely, using his awkward silver hands to push the ripped fibers back together, reconnecting the sundered words. It would need to be properly patched, possibly rewritten, if the wyvern was ever going to fly again.
At the mage’s elbow waited an inkwell and a quill. He merely needed to write the spell—write it fresh, write it clear, write it clean. Not even the entire spell, just the torn part should be sufficient. Once he could have done this in a single afternoon without breaking a sweat.
Soran’s frown deepened. He’d already made several attempts to work this repair, so he knew what would happen when he tried again. His hands, clumsy and inept, would apply too much pressure or too little. The quill would wobble in his grip. The ink would run and blot. Magic would surge from him, erratic and ineffective. He might even make things worse.
“Prrrlt?” The wyvern raised its head again, blinking at him, its eyelids not quite synchronized.
“I know, little friend,” Soran said, leaning back in the chair. “I know you want to rejoin your brethren in the air. I . . . I wish I could help you.”
The wyvern tilted its head and flicked its tongue at him, snakelike. Its gaze was distinctly accusing.
Soran glared. “Do you think I haven’t considered it? But there’s too much risk. Besides, she might not be able to understand the magic.” He pushed his hood back over his shoulders and rubbed a hand through his hair. “You’d be better off accepting your lot, accepting that you’ll never be what you once were. You’ll never fly so close to the sun again . . .”
The wyvern burbled and tilted its head. Then, with a snort, it twisted its neck around and started grooming the spines along its back, picking at each one in turn. In truth, it probably didn’t care if it ever flew again. It wasn’t exactly the brightest of the flock, and it had a nice situation here, snoozing its days away beside the hearth, growing fat on the girl’s cooking.
Soran slumped over the torn wing and spell. It really wasn’t for the wyvern’s sake he’d pulled out the tools of his craft yet again. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid to try and try and keep on trying until he somehow, by a sheer act of will, forced the skill back into his crippled hands, thwarting Lodírhal’s curse.