Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,9

stone itself. At first his heart lifted. This ward, at least, was still strong.

But the nearer he drew, the more that initial hope faded. The magic had . . . glitches. Its humming pulse shorted out now and then, leaving power gaps. Almost instantaneous, but . . . long enough for a harpen to get through?

Soran approached the stone, which was nearly his height and densely covered with spell writing. Some of the words had faded over the years, but they were still distinct enough for the magic to hold. Running a hand along its spiral pattern, he studied the intricate lines of the spell until his gaze caught a place where wind and weather had eroded the script to a dangerous level. Was this the problem?

He continued a little further, stepping around the stone to follow the words. As he came to the part facing out to sea, he stopped short, his heart thudding against his breastbone.

Here was the cause of the anomalies: A crack running up the front of the stone cut straight through three of the words. They were still legible, their power not yet broken. But the damage was well underway.

Soran bit down hard on an expletive. What was he supposed to do now? Queen Dasyra was one of the greatest mortal mages of known history, and this spell was highly specialized work. At one time he might almost have been able to equal her skill, but now . . .

He looked down at his hands, his fingers curling, straining against the restrictive nilarium. The magic inside him was as keen, as potent as ever. But he would never again be able to create new spells.

With a heavy sigh he sank to his knees, then turned to sit with his back against the boundary ward and gaze out across the sea at the Evenspire gleaming in the hazy distance. Bitter bile rose in his throat at the sight. It seemed to mock him, that symbol of his former prominence, the university where he had studied among the greatest Miphates of the age, where he had risen in the ranks until not even the oldest, most learned of their number could deny his superiority. Before he was twenty years old, rumors had abounded that he would one day ascend to the seat of Myrdin Supreme, the highest-ranked Miphato in all Seryth. Before he was twenty-five, he had assumed the green robes of an Aubron Cleric, an unheard-of honor for one so young.

And he had brought it all crashing down into ruin with his own two, doubly cursed hands.

Shadows flitted overhead. Soran raised his gaze to the sky, half expecting to see a swarm of harpens closing in. But no, they were just his wyverns. His beautiful jewel-like creations, dancing on the ocean breezes without a care in the world. A smile pulled at his mouth. But it faded almost at once as he remembered the poor blue wyvern he had left dozing on the hearth back in the lighthouse. The unicorn had torn its wing, damaging the spell Soran had used to call the wyvern to life. All attempts to repair it had proven futile.

“If you can’t fix a wyvern’s wing, how will you manage the wards?” he whispered. With a groan he dropped his head forward, too despondent to watch the wyverns flitting overhead.

What if . . . What if the girl was right?

Soran’s jaw tightened as the thought slipped through. He put a hand to his head, cold silver fingers rubbing at his temple as though he could scrub such foolish ideas out of his brain. But they wouldn’t go.

Why not try to teach the girl magic? She had already proven herself naturally adept. Or rather, unnaturally adept. Gods, she shouldn’t be able to do half the things he’d already seen her do! She could see his spells clearly, with no prior training, and had on several occasions manipulated spells herself without realizing what she was doing. It was almost frightening.

And it could mean only one thing.

“Ibrildian,” he whispered.

Peronelle Beck was an ibrildian—a cross between fae and mortal. A Hybrid. In her veins flowed a combination of red and blue blood, of fae and mortal magic, creating something wholly unique. And undeniably powerful.

Such a mingling of the races was forbidden by the Pledge, of course. In days of old, “bride snatching” had been a common practice among fae lords, particularly the kings and princes who sought to breed powerful ibrildian children to serve in their