Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,58

gaze. “Your hounds have invaded their nesting grounds. My wyverns have defense spells written into their essence. When threatened, they respond with force.”

“And you think my hounds pose a threat?” Kyriakos shrugged and stroked the skullar’s head affectionately. “They are curious beasts by nature. If they pick up an intriguing scent, they are bound to pursue it. And I believe they detected a scent most interesting indeed.”

A shot of ice ran through Soran’s veins. But he couldn’t back down, couldn’t give an inch. “In our ongoing cycle through the Eledrian realms, we encounter many interesting creatures,” he said, maintaining a stoic countenance. “Just yesterday, a massacre of harpens reached our shores. Not long before, we were visited by a unicorn.”

Kyriakos’s smile twisted sideways into a knowing smirk. “I have no interest in harpens, still less interest in unicorns. However, word reached me within Ninthalor’s cold halls that ibrildian magic has been sensed close by. Powerful magic blending the best attributes of mortal and fae gifts. As you may well imagine, such a rumor piqued my curiosity. And when your island appeared upon my horizons shortly thereafter, radiating such a profound display of mortal magic, it struck me as a likely place for an ibrildian to hide. Do you not agree, mortal?”

Soran allowed himself only a single blink. But in that blink he must decide between half-truths or an outright lie. “I have seen no ibrildia,” he said.

A half-truth, not a lie. After all, he’d put no date on the statement, and he truthfully hadn’t set eyes on Nelle yet that day.

Kyriakos opened his mouth, and a red tongue protruded, dampening his full lips. Light from the struggling sun above flashed on a wolfish fang. “But you are familiar with the term, are you not?” he said slowly. “In your own language, I believe, you call them Hybrids. Strange, dangerous creatures, outlawed by the Pledge itself. If one were to come within your purview, it would be your solemn duty as a servant of the Pledge to report its existence to the nearest authority.” He pressed a hand to his heart, long fingers splayed across his bare skin. “As master of this region, it is my duty to protect Eledria. And, as I said, you owe me for the death of my hound. A single word of information, and I will consider your debt paid.”

“I owe no debt,” Soran answered firmly. His head spun with subtle pain, and he realized Kyriakos had been working a spell through his words. He would not fall for such a trick. With an effort of will, he persisted. “You came to my shore without invitation and set your creatures freely roaming. My wyverns, sensing a threat, defended what is theirs and their master’s. There is no debt. Indeed, if you return to your ship even now, I will consider this discourteous interruption of my privacy forgiven and send no word to Lodírhal.”

Kyriakos’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the validity of this threat. How likely was it that Lodírhal had left means for his prisoner to contact him in case of invasion? The King of Aurelis was fiercely protective of all that he deemed his. How much value did he place in a single mortal prisoner serving out a curse sentence? Certainly not much, but . . . how much was Kyriakos willing to risk?

Soran waited in tense expectation, watching these questions play across the fae’s stern features. The shadowy figures standing behind the lord shifted on their feet, responding perhaps to the tension in their master’s spirit. A single word, a single thought from him would put them in motion.

One of the skullars snarled. Another barked and took a lunging step.

“Zivath!” Kyriakos snarled, and Soran’s heart stopped. Then, with a gasping breath, he realized the fae had uttered a command for retreat.

The skullars backed away, hackles raised, bony spines bristling. Though every step was reluctant, they turned, one after another, and loped up the gangplank onto the deck of the foremost boat. The shuffling among the shadowy servants stilled, and at another sharp command from their master, they filed onto the boat and made ready to pull out once more.

Kyriakos remained where he stood for some moments, holding Soran’s gaze. His eyes burned with frustration but not with defeat. “Very well, mortal,” he said at last. “We’ll say no more about it for now. But if another report of ibrildian magic reaches me before you have gone from Ninthalor territory, I will not hesitate