Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,86

stumbled into motion. Avoiding the grisly remains of a skullar cut cleanly in half, he passed through the gate and strode along the cliffside path until he reached the road leading down to the ruins of the harbor town below.

The boundaries of his prison were not impenetrable. He could get through, for a short while at least. Lodírhal would find out, of course. But whatever consequences the King of Aurelis dealt him would be worth it if he could just get to Noxaur in time.

Soran slid a hand into the front of his robes to touch the Rose Book’s leather binding. He’d already used the two great spells, and the small book of schoolboy scribblings would be utterly useless where he was going. But this spell . . . this one mighty spell . . .

Reaching the end of the cliff path, Soran picked his way between the ruinous buildings. He thought he heard something inside one of the tumbledown cottages—some shuffling of feet, a hastily closed door. He frowned, half turning. Had some other creature of Noxaur made its way across the narrow channel and taken up residence?

No. He shook his head firmly and continued on his way. If by some miracle he should return from this expedition, he would deal with invaders then.

Nelle’s little boat waited on the shore, well out of reach of even the capricious Hinter tides. Soran picked bits of seaweed and debris from its hull and made certain it was still seaworthy. To his inexpert eye it seemed solid enough. He didn’t have far to go, after all.

His arms quivered, threatening to give out on him as he dragged the boat down to the water. How could he ever find the strength for what he was about to do? Firming his jaw, he slid the boat out into the water, swiftly climbed inside, and took up the oars.

Perhaps he lacked the strength he needed. But he would do it anyway. Somehow.

Not even Kyriakos was prepared to battle an unleashed Noswraith.

A sensation of perfect softness greeted Nelle as she slowly returned to consciousness. A softness like clouds. Airy, floating, wispy clouds, tender against her tired body. She leaned into the feeling, her eyes still closed, and thought perhaps she wouldn’t wake up. Not yet.

When she drew a deep, long breath, some spicy scent she didn’t recognize tingled her nose, not at all unpleasantly. It wasn’t the smell of roses, she knew that much, though she couldn’t remember why it mattered just then. She breathed again, letting the spice tingle her nostrils and throat, then coil in her chest. Combined with the softness, it was pure bliss.

Soft, lilting music caressed her ear, a trilling of pure silver and moonlight underscored by deep bass strings. It was unlike any music she’d heard before—complex in a way she couldn’t understand. If she concentrated on it too hard, it jarred her head. But this music didn’t require concentration. It was more like the background hum of nature itself, the slow spinning dance of the spheres. Always present, never fully acknowledged. She let her mind relax, let the music play on her senses, soothing and arousing by turns.

Fingers touched her face. Cold, hard fingers that didn’t fit with the softness or the smells or the music. They pried at her cheek, pulled at the skin around her eyes. Nelle frowned and turned her head away. A deep, rough voice growled a string of strange words.

Nelle’s eyes flared open.

A face carved from flaking white stone loomed over hers. A hideous face chiseled by some inexpert hand, with protruding cheekbones and exaggerated jaw and beady little eyes set deep beneath a prominent brow. Nelle sucked in a breath, trying to scream, but her chest constricted too tight to allow any air to escape her lungs.

“Step back, Grork,” a mellifluous voice spoke from the space beyond that ugly head. “You’ll frighten the poor thing.”

The stone face shifted, and a new face floated into Nelle’s range of vision, hardly less strange than the last. Instead of stone, it seemed to be carved from wood, polished so that the grain stood out in distinct swirls across each cheek. The nose was merely a faint bump and two slitted holes like nostrils. But it had a delicate little mouth and huge luminous eyes framed by long frond-like white lashes. The mouth twisted, revealing sharp pale-green teeth.

“Oh, my dear, dear sister,” the green-eyed person said, its voice gentle and distinctly womanly. “We are so glad you have