Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,69
on hours before? It would have to do.
Hurrying to the oven, she knelt and held out the book so that the dim glow fell upon its open pages. Something gleamed on her thumb. Surprised, she looked again more closely, then uttered a little, “Well, spit in my eye!”
It was the ring. The little spell ring Soran had made for her more than a week ago now. Though it was a little large for her thumb, it had remained in place, invisible for the most part and completely unobtrusive. But the magic in it was still good.
She pinched her dry lips between her teeth. Should she summon the mage? If the Thorn Maiden was here, he was the only one who had a hope of stopping her, of containing her.
But if she summoned him, he would find Sam. And that would be the end. Of everything.
She had to do this herself.
Pressing the book open, Nelle bowed over the pages, her vision straining to make out the words. Why, oh why had she written in such a chicken scratch? This was why precision was so important to a Miphato’s art—so that when the crisis came, he could read his own bullspitting work!
“Hush your mouth!” Nelle snapped and began to murmur the words, recalling from memory what she couldn’t actually see. Within a few lines she felt the magic working, felt the connection of power between her spirit and those scrawled characters. The belief, for want of a better word. The conviction, even the confidence.
The hilt of a sword appeared in her hand. She grasped it tightly and read on until a spark of light flickered on the blade. The spark ignited, and flames leapt to life.
“What in the boggart blazes!” Sam cried.
Ignoring him, Nelle focused on completing the spell. The final few lines were easier to read by light of the fiery blade. She secured the magic, like tying a series of small knots to hold it in place. It wouldn’t last long; she could feel how weak her bindings were. Soon they would unravel, and the spell sword would disintegrate in her hand, its shimmering essence returning to the quinsatra from which it came.
But maybe it would last long enough.
Nelle rose and turned to face Sam. She held the sword low, trying not to look too intimidating. Light from the flickering flames danced across Sam’s features, shining in the whites of his round eyes.
“Don’t be scared,” she said quickly and held out her free hand to him. “I’ve been studying magic since I got here.”
“Yeah.” Sam nodded, his jaw sagging. “Yeah, so I gathered. Boggarts, Nelle, give me a little warning next time!”
She shook her extended hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to find a way out of this house. Hold onto me, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”
He looked as though he would protest. His throat worked hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a convulsive swallow. Then he reached out, threaded his fingers through hers, and allowed her to pull him around the worktables and make for the stairway at the back of the kitchen.
Nelle held the sword out before them like a lantern. Just beyond the edge of its glow, she thought she saw slithering movement in the darkness, but that may have been her imagination. The Thorn Maiden couldn’t manifest in the waking world. Soran had been clear about that. Not so long as he maintained the bindings.
But why did it feel so very real?
Sam muttered and cursed behind her as she led him up the stair to the main floor above the kitchens. In the doorway, Nelle paused and swung the sword first one direction, then the other, trying to decide which way to go. Something down the righthand passage gleamed, catching her eye. She lowered the sword and peered through the gloom.
It was a light. A small red ball of fire.
A rose in flames.
“No,” she whispered.
Nightmarish memories filled her head of that first night on Roseward when she’d fallen asleep in the Dornrise library. There had been burning roses then too. And when she’d followed them . . . when she’d followed them . . .
“This way!” she growled, and yanked Sam after her, turning down the left passage. “Quick!”
“Did you see that?” Sam said, his voice weirdly soft and dreamy. “I thought I was imagining things. But it was real, wasn’t it?”
“No. It’s just a dream.” She gave his arm a tug, wrenching him around to