Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,15

vain dream. And well he knew it.

He buried his face in his hands, his fingers and palms cold against his recently shaved face. He’d spent a long day marching the shores of Roseward to check every one of the ward stones. Three of them were compromised, though none more so than that first stone nearest to the lighthouse. At this rate it would only take another few cycles through the Hinter Sea before the island was entirely at the mercy of any hungry or curious faerie beast. He would soon run out of weapons to fight them.

The situation wasn’t desperate. Yet. But it wouldn’t be long now.

He lifted his head, his gaze turning to the nearest window set high in the wall above. The sky had deepened in color since he returned to the lighthouse. Dusk was fast approaching.

“Where is she?”

Soran turned in his seat to look at the door. Realizing what he did, he muttered a curse and faced forward again to stare down at the broken wing. He shouldn’t be worried. It wasn’t his business how she came and went. In fact, it would be better for them both if she came to her senses and left Roseward altogether. Better still if she didn’t bother to say goodbye.

And yet, here he was, watching the door again. Wondering, worrying . . . hoping . . .

The wyvern’s head shot up, bright eyes fixed, crest flaring with alertness. It had heard something.

Soran refused to turn around in his seat. He plucked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and set to work writing once more. He forced his hand to be steady, forced his brain to concentrate. He managed a single fluid stroke.

But he didn’t see it. His ears strained, and he held his breath.

At last, before he could blot the spell and ruin it, he lifted the nib from the page and simply sat there, waiting. Listening for the sound of her footsteps.

“You’re a fool, Silveri,” he whispered.

But when he heard her knock and the doorlatch turn, he couldn’t stop the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Dark clouds rolled in fast by the time Nelle drew within sight of the lighthouse again. Her new boots rubbed her heels, but at least they were sturdier than the little slippers she’d been wearing. As the first icy drops of rain fell, she tucked deep into the waterproof cloak, hoping it would protect the lovely purple gown she wore—it would be a shame to ruin it the very first day.

She paused on the cliff above the wyverns’ beach, her breath puffing in little clouds that the wind instantly whipped away, blowing hard enough to knock the hood back across her shoulders, sting her cheeks, and tousle her hair, which she’d managed to put up with a few dozen pins. Overhead, wyverns wheeled and sang a haunting song suited to the harsh mood and landscape.

She turned away from the sight, looking to the lighthouse. Light shone through the lower windows. Mage Silveri must already have a fire going. Did he anticipate her return now that sunset approached?

Did he . . . miss her when she was away?

Nelle set her jaw. She had no business thinking such things, and she wouldn’t stand for it.

With a little headshake, she strode swiftly up the path toward the lighthouse, a basket of stolen larder goods swinging from her arm. As she approached the door, she shifted the basket from her right arm to her left before knocking loudly on the door. “Oi, Mage Silveri!” she called. Then she put her hand to the latch. It gave under pressure.

“It’s me, sir,” she said, pushing the door open and entering the fire-lit room. “Boggarts, but there’s a cold wind blowing in from somewhere! It’s going to come down like hellspit tonight, or I’m much mistaken. Don’t suppose you thought to put on the kettle, did you, sir? I’m that cold, right through to my bones, and I— Seven gods above, what is this?”

She stopped short, the door still open at her back, and stared into the dim space. Her gaze fixed on the wyvern sprawled out across the table, its ridged nose between its webbed front claws, its long tail draped over the far edge, faintly twitching. Silveri sat in his place with an assortment of pots and quills before him. The sleeves of his rough robes were rolled up past his elbows, exposing the lines where the silver Nilarium ran over his wrists and gave way