Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,46

your magic studies.”

Though his voice was low, his words rang out in the stillness. They struck Nelle’s ears, ringing hard inside her head, and for some moments she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard.

Then she snarled, “Bullspit.”

He didn’t look her way. Folding his arms across his chest, he stretched his right leg out long in front of him, a pose somehow both easy and combative. “It’s too dangerous. The beings of Noxaur are particularly interested in mortals. Any trace of mortal magic on the wind will draw them like flies to Roseward’s shores. My wards are compromised as it is.”

“What about your magic?” Nelle tilted her head, her jaw tight and tense. “You’ve got spells up all over the island. Ain’t they bad enough? To attract nasties from Noxaur, I mean?”

“Yes. They are.” Silveri nodded slowly and glanced her way under his brows. “But it is well known across the Eledrian realms that I am under a curse established by the king of Aurelis. Even the lords of Noxaur would hesitate to cross Lodírhal. They will keep their beasts in check if they know what is good for them.”

Nelle snorted. “Didn’t keep the harpens in check, did they? And if I hadn’t had my spellbook and quill on me, you’d be carrion by now.” She shook her head fiercely and leaned on the table, resting her weight on her elbows. “You can’t take me this far, then just cut me off. I worked magic today. Real magic. And I saved your hide with it. You said yourself I’ve got the spark, the . . . the inspiration.”

The scars around his mouth puckered in an ugly frown. “It’s for your own good, Miss Beck.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s for your own good I refuse.”

He looked at her then, straight on. And his eye held such a dangerous flash that she wanted to cower back in her seat, to crawl away to her alcove and hide her face under the blankets. Only a will of iron made her hold her position, leaning over the table and meeting his gaze straight on.

“Look,” she said at last, breaking the tension in the air, “I’m not stupid. I’ll promise to leave off the spell-writing and conjuring until you say we’re back in safer waters. But I ain’t returning to Wimborne. Not yet. And I ain’t giving up the magic-studies. I won’t do it, sir.”

With a sudden scrape of chair legs, the mage stood. His tattered robes hung from his limbs like a ghostly shroud, and in that poor lighting he looked truly ominous. Nelle couldn’t move, trapped under his gaze like a mouse pinned down by a cat.

Still silent, he turned and strode to the stair. She watched, her heart in her throat, as he climbed the treads and vanished from sight, then listened to his footsteps continue up the tower above. When even that sound had faded, she let out a gusting breath.

“Typical!” she growled, bowing her head and running trembling fingers through her hair. The exhaustion of the day returned in full force, and she couldn’t find the strength to lift her head again for a long, long while.

What was it I said to you once, so long ago? A woman doesn’t like to remain in calm waters all her life. She likes a little risk, a little peril. A little danger.

Soran bowed over the Rose Book, reasserting the binding spell. After the day he’d had, the last thing he wanted was to work this complex magic yet again. But he had no choice.

He stumbled over a word and felt the whole spell waver. A brief error, one he quickly corrected.

But the Thorn Maiden sensed the weakness and was swift to take advantage. She poured into the tower chamber, a mass of slithering vines. Then she emerged from the undulating coils, assuming her womanly, thorn-studded shape, and leaned against his desk, draping herself in the very way Helenia once did when she sought to distract Soran from his work.

You’ll never be able to protect her, my love. Not if she doesn’t wish to be protected. You’re fighting a battle you cannot win. She reached one long-fingered hand to tickle him under the chin like a favorite pet. Her fingertips left burning scrapes along his skin. It seems I may not have my chance at her after all.

Soran tried to steel his concentration, to force her words out of his head. But she was far too sly. The poison of her perfume filled his nostrils, drawing