Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,5
why is there only one?”
“I don’t know.” Silveri moved from the armoire to the broken chair lying beside the table. He set it upright, but it sagged sadly, one of its legs snapped clean off. He tilted it upside-down, resting the seat on the table, and inspected the break more closely while he spoke. “They breed in the mountains of Noxaur during the desolate months, then migrate across the Hinter Sea to the Umbrian Isles for the better part of the seasons of abundance. We are not far from Umbrian shores at this time of the cycle, and we must hope we have not drifted too close to a harpen migration route. If there was a storm at sea, it is likely this harpen was separated from its fellows and took shelter alone here on Roseward.”
“And if not?” Nelle pressed. “Does this mean your protections have broken down? I mean, if one harpen got through, couldn’t there be others about the island somewhere?”
Silveri’s face was grim as he looked at her between the chair legs. But he said, “No need to assume the worst, Miss Beck. I will inspect the wards today and make certain they are secure.”
“And what about me? I suppose I’ll just have to stay inside until we know it’s safe, right? I can’t very well go wandering about the island if there’s a massacre of harpens waiting to pounce.”
The grim look on the mage’s face deepened, the severe lines around his mouth pulling at his many scars. Nelle watched him closely, eager to see what answer he would give. This could be her chance. Since her arrival at Roseward four days ago, he had not once allowed her to stay in the lighthouse by herself. Which meant she’d not yet had opportunity to properly search the tower overhead.
If he would give her even half an hour to herself, then maybe . . . maybe . . .
“You will need something for your protection,” he said at last. He left the chair upturned on the table and returned to the armoire. Nelle breathed a sigh of disappointment but hastily stifled it, watching curiously as the mage once more rooted around among the books.
When he turned to face her again, a slim volume clasped in his hands, she shot him a beaming smile. “Does this mean you’re going to teach me magic after all?”
His expression hardened. “As I have told you before, Miss Beck, I am no more prepared to teach magic than you are prepared to learn it.”
“Bullspit,” Nelle shot back. She pulled out the unbroken chair and sat down at the table, leaning on her elbows and tilting her head at him. “I can already see magic. That’s half the battle there, ain’t it? You told me you studied for years to gain a proper sight, and I already got that part covered. How hard can the rest of it be? It’s just writing.”
“Just writing?” A red flush rose in the mage’s deathly pale cheeks. “Is that what you think? And a master musician sitting down to his instrument, does he just pluck the strings? Is that all there is to it?”
Nelle rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . . I just think I could help a little bit. I’ve helped you some already, you’ve got to admit. You didn’t take down that unicorn by yourself, you know. I did my part. I swung your spittin’ fire sword around but good!”
The flush receded, replaced again by that unnatural pallor. Silveri nodded slowly, his face still grim but also thoughtful. “That you did,” he said slowly. His eyes, though still focused on her, had a far-off sort of look to them. “That you did, Miss Beck.”
This seemed hopeful. Nelle waited, chewing on the inside of her cheek. They’d had variations on this same conversation several times since yesterday morning, but this was the closest she’d come to convincing him. If she pushed too hard too soon, she knew he’d wall up again and be nothing but stern, foreboding denial. So she held her breath as long as she could, watching him.
Without a word, Silveri approached the table and placed the book in front of him. He stood with one hand propped to hold the pages open, the other hand clenched in a fist and planted at his waist. He cut a dramatic figure despite the shrouding robes. Those dense folds of cloth couldn’t entirely block out Nelle’s memory of the hard-muscled