Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,28
and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. When she looked again, the characters were still. What’s more, although as sloppy as she’d originally thought, they didn’t cover the entire page but stretched across only three small lines along the top.
She must be going crazy. She must be. Because she could have sworn for a moment there—a brief, infinitesimal moment—she’d glimpsed a ridged spine, an arch of wing, a long, sinuous tail.
Definitely crazy.
With a sigh, she slumped back in her chair and gave Silveri a baleful look. He watched her contemplatively, one elbow cupped in the opposite hand, silver fingers rubbing his shaved chin. She tried and failed to read the expression glittering in his eyes.
“All right, you can tell me,” she said, tilting her head to stretch her sore neck. “Am I a complete failure or just a bit of a failure? Don’t spare me, sir. I can take it.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Rubbed at his chin harder than before.
Then, in a voice almost too soft for her to hear, he said, “That was most impressive, Miss Beck.”
The rain let up by the time that first lesson was complete.
Soran moved to the door and flung it open, allowing a cold blast of air into the room, cooling his flushed face. He stood on the threshold, his eyes closed, simply breathing in the smell of the sea and the freshness of the world after a storm. For the space of several breaths he concentrated on these sensations.
But he couldn’t block out the thoughts clamoring inside his head.
She was good. She was more than good. She was talent unlike anything he’d ever before witnessed.
Seven gods, for a moment there he’d thought she would bring a wyvern out of nothing into the air!
Any uncertainties he’d clung to vanished entirely. The girl was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, an ibrildian. A Hybrid. She could be nothing less. How strong the strain of fae blood in her veins was, he couldn’t guess. He couldn’t even know if more or less fae blood would make her more or less powerful. A little too much in either direction might tilt the scales against her.
But she could feel the presence of magic most mortals would never detect. He himself, though blessed with a sensitivity that had allowed him to bring small spells into existence at a young age, had required years of study and training before he could perceive the quinsatra with any clarity.
Years that Peronelle Beck had skipped over in a single morning.
He opened his eyes, gazing out on the ocean stretched before him. Gazing out to the Evenspire, which was more clearly visible following the thundershower. One could almost believe it existed within this very world.
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. What would his old masters and instructors say if they knew he’d found a Hybrid? Would they fall over themselves in their rabid eagerness to get their hands on the girl and the potential power flowing through her veins?
No. A sobering wave washed over him, leaving Soran shivering in the cold. The Pledge forbade the very existence of Hybrids. At best, Nelle would be driven into exile and obscurity, forbidden to so much as look at another quill or parchment for the rest of her born days, held prisoner in some remote location where she could do no harm to the world.
At worst, she would be killed outright.
What was he doing? Soran ran a hand down his face, nilarium-tipped fingers freezing against his already chilled skin. What business had he to put her at such risk? And without even telling her the possible consequences.
But if she knew, would she still be so eager to learn? Would she still look at him with those shining eyes, begging him to unmask the secrets of the universe as he understood them? Would she be able to throw herself into the study and practice with the same gritty determination he had observed this morning?
Or would she do what she ought to have done the very morning of her arrival at Roseward: Climb back into her boat and flee to her own world, never once looking back.
Movement behind him returned Soran to the present. He dropped his hand from his face and opened his eyes but couldn’t quite bring himself to face the dim room at his back. He heard busy sounds, homey kitchen sounds, and wasn’t surprised when the girl suddenly plucked at his elbow.