unlike any spell I’ve ever seen before.”
Grunting, Nelle folded her arms around her middle. “Well, it worked. Sort of. Didn’t last long, but it did the trick, didn’t it?”
“It certainly did.” The mage closed the book and offered it back to her. Nelle didn’t move to take it. She lacked the energy.
He set it aside on the floor and quietly said, “Once more, Miss Beck, I find I owe you my life.”
Nelle looked at his scarred and bleeding face, then away again. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her gut churned uncomfortably. How close had she come to losing him? It was hard to fathom, hard to believe. Mage Soran Silveri was such a powerful force, such a figure of mastery and mystery. She couldn’t imagine him actually being mortal. Vulnerable.
Yet when she’d seen that flock of harpens turn in midair, making straight for him . . .
She shuddered, ducking her head. She’d scarcely thought about what she did. It was as though instinct had made her pluck the empty book from her cloak pocket, had made her grab her quill and begin to scrawl the words, letting the spell pour out of her.
Then she’d run up the narrow cliff path with everything she had, heedless of the danger a single false step would mean. Only when she’d reached the top and seen the harpens gathered in a tumultuous cloud above the grove of pines where the mage took shelter did she pause long enough to read off the spell.
It probably should have surprised her, the ease with which the sword manifested from thin air, flames bursting to life along its razor edge. But at the time she’d thought of nothing but getting to Silveri.
Perhaps that was the trick of it. Perhaps all along she’d been too focused on making the magic do what she wished. Perhaps if she’d concentrated instead on the goal, the intent, and not on the act itself . . .
Nelle groaned and dropped her head into her hand as another wave of exhaustion struck and her body shook with the aftereffects of creation. Who knew that magic took such a toll?
“You should lie down,” Silveri said.
“You know, I think you’re right,” Nelle agreed and began to stretch out on the floor once more. But his big hands reached out to grip her shoulders, and he pulled them both to their feet. Then he wrapped one arm around her, holding her steady as he guided her across the room to her alcove. Nelle’s fingers fumbled with the clasp of her cloak but couldn’t quite seem to manage it.
“Here,” said the mage. His cold fingers rested on hers, gently pulling her hands away. Unresisting, she allowed him to work the clasp, slide the cloak away from her shoulders, and drop it on the pile of rugs below.
She gazed up at him, watching the blood trickle in ribbons along the scars and grooves of his face. The wounds the harpens had dealt were already beginning to heal under the influence of Hinter air. Still, they looked raw.
Nelle reached up one trembling hand to rest her palm against his cheek. She heard the sharp intake of his breath. His lashes moved in a series of swift, surprised blinks as he met her gaze.
She wanted to say . . . something. To apologize for taking so long to reach him. To tell him she was glad she’d gotten there in time, glad she’d somehow worked a spell, even if she couldn’t remember how she’d done it. To tell him how thankful she was that he was still alive.
Her mouth moved, wordless. She saw his gaze flick down to her lips and focus there. Something glimmered in his eye, some expression . . . she couldn’t quite read it. She tried again to speak, but her throat closed tight.
Hardly aware of what she did, she leaned toward him just a fraction.
The movement was enough to break the momentary spell.
“Lie down, Miss Beck,” Silveri said. “You’ve had an ordeal. The harpens will not get through, I promise. You may rest easily.”
Nelle nodded, swallowed, and dropped her chin. Then she sank onto the pile of rugs, drawing the blanket and folds of her cloak over her body. She was asleep almost before she’d closed her eyes.
She woke to the sound of the door opening.
Nelle started upright in the alcove bed. With a scramble of wings and scales and an irritable bleat, the wyvern tumbled off her and landed in a pile on the