Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,92

quivered again at the growl in his voice. “How long it has been since I smelled true ibrildian blood! I had not realized how I missed it, how I longed for it.”

Ibrildian? Some dull part of her mind, behind the clamor of her pulse, recognized the word. He’d said it before, back at Dornrise. Was it an Eledrian word for human?

The fae lord drew back, his mouth curved in that slow, dangerous smile. Then he raised one eyebrow. “You are frightened, little one.” To her surprise, he let go of the poker and took several steps back. Deprived of his support, she nearly slid to the floor, only just catching herself in time.

He shook his head, still smiling, and his midnight hair flowed silkily across his broad, bare shoulders. “Don’t be afraid. Contrary to rumor, I like my wives willing. Just now I have other purposes in mind for you.”

So saying, he turned his back—obviously aware she’d lost the strength and will for another attack—and left her holding the poker while he approached a table she hadn’t noticed before, near the wall opposite the fireplace. Murmuring words she couldn’t hear, he snapped once, and light appeared at his fingertips. He held the flickering glow to two candle wicks, which caught and burned brightly.

Much to her surprise, Nelle saw her satchel lying slumped on the table, and beside it her quill and spellbook.

Kyriakos waved a hand, indicating a chair beside the table. “We must talk, my pretty wife,” he said. “I am keen to learn more of your magic, having had an eyeful of it already. That cunning spell-sword of yours! So delightful. Do come. Sit. You have nothing to fear.”

The fae might not lie outright, but Nelle suspected this statement wasn’t entirely true. Still, she couldn’t just stand there with her back against the wall. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he could have easily done so already.

Lowering the poker, Nelle crossed the room, uncomfortably aware of how the splits in her skirt exposed her knees and thighs with every step she took. Kyriakos noticed as well, judging by the appreciative looks traveling up and down her body. But he held the chair for her and, when she was seated, took the place opposite hers. He was much too large for both chair and table, but he contrived to look relaxed and graceful, nonetheless.

“Now,” he said, planting one long finger on the cover of her book, “tell me about this.”

“Um.” Nelle coughed to clear the rasp from her voice. The Sweet Dreams burned on her lips, potent and ready. But it wasn’t as though she could lunge across the table and try to catch him in a kiss. She might as well talk as not. “It’s a spellbook.”

“Yes.” The fae lord chuckled again and moved his finger to flip the cover open, turning the blank pages slowly, one after another. “I am familiar with the concept. But are not mortal spellbooks meant to be filled with written spells? Or has the process changed sometime in the last three hundred years?”

“Oh. No.” Nelle coughed again. “I’m still new at the . . . at the craft. I’ve only written a few proper spells. And I’ve used them up already.”

“Indeed?” One eyebrow slid upward. “But you have begun your training. That is fortunate. Once the spring of magic has been tapped, it is easy enough to increase the flow. Especially in an ibrildian.”

She glanced at him and away again, unsure what to say to this.

“That mortal mage,” Kyriakos continued, “back on the drifting island. He was your teacher? Your”—he leaned in a little, candlelight gleaming on his sharp-toothed smile—“lover?”

“Teacher,” Nelle answered quickly and rubbed a hand across her face, pushing loose strands of hair out of her eyes. “We had, uh, only just begun lessons. A week ago.”

“And yet so far advanced!” Kyriakos shook his head gently, trying to catch her eye. “You don’t realize the truth, do you? You don’t know how far you’ve come in so short a while. It is my understanding that it takes years for a mortal mage to develop even the ability to properly perceive the quinsatra, much less to draw forth magic from that realm. A few years more or less seem but little to my kind. To your kind, however, I believe the time is more significant.” He leaned back in his chair and waved a graceful hand her way, causing the candle flames to waver briefly. “For one such as you to come