Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,93

as far as you have in a mere week is, to Eledrians, like a babe dancing and singing within an hour of its birth. A miracle!”

Nelle frowned. One such as her? He spoke the words with such weight, such significance. She cast him a hasty, bewildered look before dropping her gaze.

“Oh.” Kyriakos nodded slowly, folding his arms across his wide chest. “I see. You don’t know what you are, do you?”

Before she could think of an answer, he stood and strode across the room to touch a place in the apparently seamless wall. When it swung out, revealing a casement of beautiful decanters, he fetched a decanter and two glasses, then returned to the table and set one glass before Nelle, another at his place. The cut-crystal stopper chinked musically as he lifted the decanter and swirled the deep red liquid inside before pouring. A sweet scent rose from the glass, mingling with the spice in the air.

“A little fortification, my dear,” the fae said before stoppering the bottle and resuming his seat. He lifted his glass in a silent toast and sipped daintily from the rim.

Nelle eyed her glass uneasily. What exactly was in it? Another layer of beguilement? Her tongue felt like sandpaper, her throat terribly parched. She glanced up at Kyriakos, catching his eye.

“It’s wine,” he answered her unspoken question. “Aurelian wine from the coastal region of Mylaela. Said to be well suited to mortal palates. Have a taste, my dear. You’ll need it for what I am about to tell you.”

She picked up the glass and swirled it slightly. Then quickly, before she could change her mind, put it to her lips and sipped. A sweet tang filled her mouth, bright as dawn light. It enlivened and enlightened all at once and left behind a faintly bitter burn. It was delightful. A far cry from Soran’s horrid qeiese, that was certain! She took a second and a third sip before forcing herself to set the glass down.

Kyriakos toyed thoughtfully with the stem of his glass. “Your teacher never told you that you are ibrildian, did he.”

Nelle shook her head. When her brain made a pleasant whoosh, she held carefully still. “Wh-what’s that word?” she said, stumbling a little over the words. “Ibrildian. You keep saying it, but I ain’t heard it before.”

The fae lord smiled, turning his glass in a gentle rotation, making the wine whirl. “In your tongue, I believe, the word is Hybrid. It is a term used to describe fae-human crossbreeds. Such as yourself.”

Nelle blinked at him vacuously. Then she frowned and sat up a little straighter. “What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s the reason you are adept at magic. Your blood is a mingling of fae and human strains. Not quite half and half, I should think. Unless I miss my guess, one of your parents was also ibrildian, most likely your mother. Strange that she should have survived long enough to procreate. Ibrildian offspring were outlawed at the signing of the Pledge, you understand, and very few are yet alive to this day. My own ibrildian children were hunted down ages ago and killed before my eyes.” Bitterness laced his words, yet he continued to smile. The contrast was unnerving. “So you see, my dear, why it is so fortunate that I should meet you.”

Her heart constricted into a tighter and tighter knot with every phrase he uttered. Hybrid . . . fae and human crossbreed . . .

Mother.

Of course.

Of course. She should have known it long ago.

Of course Mother was part fae. How else could she have been so beautiful, so wild, so reckless? Only a fae could dance through life in lower Wimborne with such devil-may-care élan. Only a fae would think it a lark to snatch a handsome mortal husband and keep him like some sort of a pet all those years, helpless and utterly enthralled. It made perfect sense.

And how else had she come by all those fae treasures of hers?

But that meant . . . What did it mean? Nelle’s head churned with questions she couldn’t fully form. Unthinking, she lifted her glass to her lips and took another sip. She wasn’t human. Not really, not fully. All right then. She could deal with that, couldn’t she? She was still herself.

“Did . . . did he know?” she blurted suddenly, remembering at the last not to give away Soran’s name.

“Your teacher, you mean?” Kyriakos drained his glass and set it down hard. “He had to know.