Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,6
torso she’d glimpsed three days ago, when the unicorn stabbed him and she was obliged to strip him down and pry the shard of horn from his shoulder.
And there was also that dream . . .
Nelle flushed and dropped her gaze. Stupid to let her thoughts go there. It was only a dream, after all. And it wasn’t even wholly her own dream, but part of a dangerous enchantment cast over her mind by the deadly Thorn Maiden. If she were smart, she would drive all memory of it out of her mind entirely and barricade against any return. No good could come from dwelling on the spells of a monster.
But . . .
The images lingered, nonetheless. Images of strong arms wrapped around her body, pulling her closer. Images of a beautiful chiseled face without scar or flaw, bent over hers. Soft sensual lips exploring her mouth, her cheek, her jaw.
Nelle cleared her throat sharply and sat back in her chair, rubbing the nape of her heated neck with one hand. The mage, concentrating on the contents of his book, seemed unaware of her, and she was glad of it. Somehow she felt that if he looked her way, he would immediately read where her mind had been. And that would be unbearable. He didn’t know the contents of the Noswraith’s implanted dream, after all. Did he? Of course, he didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d admitted that he, too, had been attacked that night, but of course the nightmare he’d experienced must have been something entirely different. People didn’t share dreams.
Yet something about the way he firmly refused to reference the events of that attack in any detail did make her wonder . . .
Nelle clenched her jaw tight and folded both hands in her lap, twiddling her thumbs. The mage was taking much longer over the book than she would have expected. Feeling the need to fill the silence, she inquired, “So all those spellbooks you’ve got stashed away in there, are they from your student days?”
He raised one brow and flicked a look at her from under his lashes. “Yes.” His gaze reverted to the book.
“Even that lightning bolt?” Nelle persisted. “That’s something the Miphates teach to little boys?”
“Every sixth-year student of the Miphates branch of magic knows how to compose a bolt-strike spell,” Silveri responded, shrugging one shoulder.
“Really?” Nelle made a quick calculation in her head. “The university’s got fifteen-year-old boys wandering about the halls with the ability to blast each other with lightning at a moment’s notice? That don’t seem terribly smart, if you’ll pardon my saying it.”
He rolled his eyes slightly, still without looking at her. “Strict rules and regulations keep any unprincipled practice of dangerous magicks in check. Besides, a conjuring such as you witnessed just now would be beyond the skill of a sixth-year. Even if they correctly put down the spell itself, they may not correctly call it into being. The study of magic involves layers of which you are entirely ignorant.”
“Yeah, well, whose fault is it if I’m ignorant?” she muttered, not quite loud enough for him to hear. She leaned forward on the table again, pressing her lips into a tight line and watching as the mage slowly turned another page. His eyes seemed to scan the lines far too quickly to justify the amount of time he spent poring over each page.
Despite her ignorance, she had over the last few days learned a thing or two about magic. She’d known before coming to Roseward that mortal magic involved the writing and storing of spells. She hadn’t realized that those spells were written in a secret language, nor had she known that a written spell could be conjured only once before its power evaporated and the page on which it was written burned away to dust. At least so it seemed to be with the smaller spells she’d watched Silveri perform. He had implied that the great spells lasted longer.
The spell contained within the Rose Book, for instance. That was a great spell indeed.
But Silveri could no longer create spells. Nelle’s gaze moved from studying his face to the silver-coated hand planted on the open book. It wasn’t really silver; it was nilarium, a fae alloy. Years ago, Silveri had been cursed by a powerful fae king for magical crimes committed against Faerieland. He could still conjure old spells, but he could never again write new ones with those encrusted hands. Which meant that his magic had an ultimate limit.