No wonder 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 than nothing.
While Nelle watched the sizzling eggs, Silveri muttered more magic, using yet another spell to repair the broken chair leg. That task complete, he set the chair upright by the table, took a seat, and folded his arms deep into the sleeves of his robe, watching Nelle silently as she fetched two wooden plates and served up their meal.
Strange, Nelle thought, how comfortable she’d become with this little morning routine. Not the monster attacks and mayhem so much, but the somewhat odd and stilted yet undeniable companionship of sharing a meal with the stern mage. She liked to think that he had grown accustomed to her presence as well, that he might even welcome the change from his long solitude.
Fifteen years of exile Soran had endured alone here on Roseward Isle. Exile from his own world, cut adrift to float on the currents of the Hinter Sea between the many realms of Faerieland. That was a long time for any man to be totally alone. Small wonder, really, that he was such a brooding sort! All things considered, he’d been remarkably kind and gracious to his unwanted invader, agreeing to give her shelter and enduring all her teasing and her nosy questions with dignified grace.
And every night he battled for her protection. Battled to keep the Thorn Maiden from breaking through into her dreams and slaughtering her in her sleep.
Nelle shuddered as she served up the eggs. After she placed one plate before Silveri and took the other for herself, they ate in silence, Nelle using the one fork available while Soran daintily picked at his food with his fingers. His hands, while not wholly useless for basic tasks, were too clumsy to wield smaller utensils.
“What will you do with your day, Miss Beck?”
Startled by the question, Nelle looked up. It wasn’t like the mage to make small talk over a meal. A warm glow of pleasure at this unexpected attention bloomed in her breast. “I thought I’d go up to Dornrise again,” she said. “Fetch a few things from the larder.”
“While you’re there, perhaps you ought to find yourself a fresh gown.”
The warm glow dimmed as Nelle looked ruefully down at her dress. Only a few days ago it had been a lovely dusty blue, fresh and clean and by far the nicest thing she’d worn in years, since Mother died. Now the original color could hardly be discerned beneath all the mud and grime and pulls and tears. Not to mention the newly added smear of oatmeal.
“You know what, sir,” she said around a bite of egg, “perhaps I will.”
Something must be wrong. Very wrong indeed if a harpen had gotten through the protective barrier of the ward stones.
His face grim, his mouth turned down in a hard line, Soran marched along the south coastline near the edge of the high sea cliffs. It was bad enough that a unicorn had made its way to Roseward’s shores. But the Hinter currents always did draw Roseward near to the edges of the Dawn Kingdom where unicorns dwelt. And unicorns were such powerful beings, they could generally work their way through stronger wards than his.
Harpens, however . . . Soran shook his head, grinding his teeth. Even when flocked they didn’t generate particularly powerful magic. If a single harpen got through on its own, that meant one of the island’s wards must have failed.