Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,48

a faint tinge of gray in the sky. Surely it was close enough to dawn to be safe.

Dislodging the wyvern, which snorted and twitched in its sleep, Nelle climbed out of the alcove, pulled her gown on over her flimsy chemise and, on impulse, snatched up her cloak as well. She wasn’t hungry and she didn’t feel like tea. She felt . . . stifled. Cramped. She felt as though she’d been entombed in this room for a year or more, though she knew it was only since yesterday afternoon.

Heaving a sigh, she glanced first at the door, then at the stairway leading to Silveri’s tower. More than anything she wanted to step outside and breathe in a few deep lung-fulls of fresh air. But the mage had been clear in his warnings. What if more harpens had breached the wards last night? Or worse?

She pulled her cloak around her shivering shoulders and moved to stoke up the fire. Once she had a little blaze going, she lit two candles and set them on the table. Their flickering light shone on the cover of the blank spellbook Silveri had given her. Her enchanted quill lay beside it. Silveri must have picked them off the floor and placed them here sometime yesterday. She didn’t remember when.

Taking a seat at the table, Nelle drew the spellbook toward her, sighed, and didn’t open it. What was the point? Just yesterday she’d felt the surge of true power burst through her veins. And now . . .

Now she must keep her head down. Stifle all the urges teeming in her fingertips and remain quiet. Unobtrusive. Wait and hope that danger passed by without turning her way.

“Bullspit,” she growled.

Was this to be her lot in life? Cowering and hiding and deceiving? She shook her head and shoved the book away, almost knocking over one of the candles. “Get your head on straight, girl! You’re not here to learn magic. You’ve got one job to do. One!”

But why was it so hard to remember? Why did that life in Wimborne seem so far away, so . . . pointless? Even Papa’s face had faded from the forefront of her mind.

Which was wrong, so wrong! Papa needed her; Papa depended on her. She’d promised Mother she would care for him. She’d promised. She’d . . .

Nelle frowned. What was that sound? Was it . . . footsteps outside?

No. It couldn’t be. Maybe she was still asleep. She must be, and this must be one of the Thorn Maiden’s manipulative nightmares. She would ignore it, and it would go away.

The thought had scarcely crossed her mind before the footsteps reached the door. The next moment there was a terrific pounding, loud enough to jolt her to her feet. If that was a nightmare, it was a boggart-spitting convincing one! One hand pressed to her heart, the other to the table for support, she stared across the dark chamber.

“Hullo?”

Nelle’s eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Hullo, is anyone in there?” Another round of pounding, and then, “Please, please, answer!”

That voice. She knew that voice. She’d know it anywhere, whether in dreams or reality.

But it couldn’t be true, couldn’t be real. It must be a dream, a nightmare, it must . . .

She was already moving, already crossing the chamber in quick strides. All but falling against the door, she fumbled with the latch. It resisted her pull—powerful spells held it shut.

The voice on the other side cried again, desperately, “Please, can anyone hear me?”

Grinding her teeth, Nelle yanked hard. The spell gave. The door swung open.

And Samton Rallenford fell into her arms.

She staggered as she caught him and dropped heavily to her knees, dragging him down with her. He wrapped his lanky arms around her, clinging like a child clutching hold of its mother. He was soaked to the bone and trembling like a leaf.

“Thank the gods!” he whimpered. “Thank the gods! Thank the gods, someone is here!”

“Sam?” Nelle quavered.

A jolt shot through his body. He pulled against her grasp to blink at her in the dim pre-dawn light. “Boggarts, am I dreaming?” he said and shook his head hard before looking at her again. “Is that really you, Ginger?”

She couldn’t answer. Her throat closed too tight to get a word out. This was no dream. He . . . smelled too real. Like the Sam she’d always known. A little sooty, a little salty, yet always a little sweet as well from the sugar-grass leaves he was