Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,7
he had kept and hoarded every spellbook from his student days, even from as far back as those foolish first-year spells. For the job he must do here on Roseward Isle—protecting the mortal world against the threat of the Thorn Maiden—required every bit of magic he could get.
How many of his precious spells had he been obliged to use trying to keep Nelle alive these last four days?
Nelle cupped her chin in her hands, a knot of guilt twisting in her breast. But she had no time for guilt. It wasn’t as though she’d come to Roseward by choice. It wasn’t as though she wanted to be here.
Papa, she thought, and the knot twisted tighter. Papa, I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long. I’ll do the job, I swear. I’ll save you . . .
“Ah!” Mage Silveri’s sharp voice jarred Nelle from her reverie. He picked up the book with both hands, holding it out before him. “This should do well enough.”
“What?” Nelle asked, turning her head slightly to one side. “What is it?”
Instead of answering, he began reading in that strange language. It fell from his mouth, light and quick and easy, though how his throat and tongue could form some of those sounds Nelle couldn’t fathom. It didn’t sound entirely natural.
Magic shimmered in the air before him. He lifted one hand to make a little winding motion with one finger. A gleaming filament—almost, but not quite invisible—wrapped round and round his knuckle. It was so thin and delicate that he wound nearly a hundred times before it formed the thickness of a ring.
His words ended with a final imperative phrase followed by a small flash of golden light. Nelle looked away, blinking hard. When she peered up at the mage again, he was turning his hand this way and that, inspecting the little band of gold around his index finger. He nodded, satisfied, and pulled it over his knuckle.
“There you are, Miss Beck,” he said, presenting the ring to her, bright gold against the silver of his palm.
Nelle hesitated. “What is it?”
“A summoning spell.” The mage tossed the ring lightly. It turned in the air, flashing bright, and landed in his cupped palm. “Wear this on your finger, and a thread of connection will remain linked to me. If you get into trouble, you need only tug on the thread three times like so”—he demonstrated, clenching his hand in a fist and making three sharp knocking motions—“and I will know to come at once to your aid.” He looked pleased with himself as he held the ring out to her once more.
Nelle’s lip curled. “So, let’s say I happen upon a massacre of harpens. I just tug three times, and you come running fast as you can to . . . what? Bury my picked-clean bones? Is that how this works?”
His pleased expression soured. “Roseward isn’t that large of an island. So long as you take shelter at the first sign of trouble, I should reach you in plenty of time.”
“Should,” she repeated, then nodded. “Should, yes. I’m suddenly overflowing with confidence.”
His nostrils flared slightly. “Take the ring, Miss Beck. It is unlikely more than one harpen made it through the boundaries without attracting the attention of my wyverns. Otherwise, they would have brought me word. You may go about your day with confidence. This is merely a precaution.”
Nelle plucked the ring from his hand. It was much too large for any of her fingers, so she slid it over her thumb instead. It was still a little loose, but if she was careful, it wouldn’t slip free too easily. She spun it around, admiring the workmanship. From some angles it vanished entirely, and her mortal eyes could perceive nothing more than a faint shimmer of magic where she knew the ring ought to be. From other angles it was a perfect little gold band made up of a hundred delicate threads all wound together. Mage Silveri was a master of his craft.
“Still think it makes more sense for you to teach me how to defend myself,” she said, rising from her seat at the table and crossing the room to the fireplace. The wyvern, recovered from its fright, was happily gobbling up the cold, half-cooked oatmeal strewn across the floor. “Wretched worm,” Nelle muttered while fetching a flat pan, which she set atop the burning coals to heat. Seagull eggs for breakfast this morning. Not an appetizing prospect with no salt to flavor them, but better