Darkborn Darkborn Trilogy_Book 1 Alison Sinclair

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known what it felt like to be known. She knew what it was to be desired, yes: Every time they came
together, she drank of Balthasar s desire like a sparkling wine. It was to preserve the heady clarity of that
desire that she would not let Bal make love to her after they quarreled, until they had healed the quarrel
with words. But when the baron Ishmael kissed her, she had felt the pain of his injured shoulder, felt
the anger he still harbored, felt his fear, felt his desire like a resinous brandy, felt the aching loneliness of
the outcast. Then she had felt his emotions shift as he felt hers in turn, the anger mitigated, the fear falling
away, the desire becoming mingled with surprise, the loneliness become a yearning toward her. For a
moment, pure revelation of reciprocity had held her, and then she broke away, and she knew that he
knew how nearly she had not broken away. Sweet Imogene, what manner of wanton was she, with her
husband lying beaten near to death upstairs? Magic was as corrupting as everyone claimed.
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Telmaine, said Olivede from behind her.
She turned, at bay. Don t come near me!
There was a silence, and then Olivede s sonn brushed her very lightly. So your errand was not
successful. I am so very sorry. She stepped back and gestured toward the sitting room. My colleagues
are upstairs, she said. You might be more comfortable if you waited here until they re done.
Could the mageborn woman standing square in the hall, blocking the way to the stairs sense the wild
impulse working in her to scream at them to leave Balthasar alone, to beat or drag them away from him if
necessary? She tamped down the scream to a single gulped sob, which reactivated the turmoil in her
stomach. There was no baron to offer her his potion she pushed past Olivede into the downstairs privy.
Olivede, blessedly, finally left her alone.
Shaky and purged, she crept into the sitting room and closed the door. She sat, her head back, sonn
quiescent, and did not stir as she heard footsteps come down the stairs. Cheap soles, she recognized,
cheap soles and the weary tread of a strange man and woman. She braced herself as outside the door
she heard skirts rasp and rustle and words quietly exchanged: Olivede, thanking her fellow mages,
followed by a low-voiced argument as to whether they should take a cab. She knew what she should
do rise, go to the door, open it, face them, offer them money for a cab, offer them her thanks . She
shuddered; there was that part of her that could not believe that Balthasar was not lying dead, or if not
dead, as corrupted as she. And so she huddled in her chair while the argument concluded, with Olivede
saying finally, You will take a cab and an escort. I cannot let you return unguarded. Baron Strumheller
would have apoplexy. A moment later, through the door came a piercing whistle of the most common
sort. Telmaine winced at the thought of her genteel neighbors even the cabdrivers hearing that. And
plainly, the cabdrivers agreed, for the whistle was not followed by the approaching sound of a cab, but
by silence and another whistle, and a, Curse them, from Olivede.
We should be able to get a cab on the avenue, said the young woman resignedly. Perhaps I could
walk there and bring it back.
D-do you think that was the young guard the baron would mind if . . . if we used his automobile?
I can drive it. My b-brother builds them.
Telmaine started to her feet, suddenly finding it intolerable that they should linger a moment longer in the
hallway of her of Bal s home. Never mind that she well knew that Bal should not likewise find it
intolerable. She handed herself from chair arm to chair back and leaned upon the doorknob as she pulled
the door open. I will summon you a cab, she said.
She stepped out into the night air, the young guard at her shoulder, and blew upon her whistle. There
was a moment s silence, and then, from the direction of the rank, the jingle of a harness and a cab coming
slowly into motion. She waited with her head high, aware that her dress was rumpled and her veil
slipping, and refusing to acknowledge either. When the cab drew up and the driver s sonn brushed lightly
over her, she lifted her skirts and stepped lightly down to the curb. You will take the magistra and
magister wherever they need to go, please. They have done my household great service tonight. From
her pouch she took a half-solar and put it in the coachman s hand; for that he should be prepared to
drive halfway to the Borders. Then she turned, and, sweeping her skirts aside, she passed the mages as
they came down the stairs. For the first time she sonned their faces, the young woman a young girl,
actually, no older than Anarys, though much plainer, and the man well past middle age. Both moved with
that bone-aching weariness she herself felt, drained by magic. The man s sonn caught whatever of her
unwelcome empathy showed on her face, for he paused, and then said gently, You have a remarkable
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husband, Lady Stott. What he lacks in constitution, he makes up for in spirit. He did not sonn her again,
so he did not sonn her frozen apprehension of his words. She took the last few steps at a stumbling run,
and Olivede and the guard stood aside to let her pass.
He s asleep, Olivede said, a penetrating whisper, as Telmaine set foot on the stairs. Don t wake him.
Telmaine turned; Olivede spread her hands. The longer we can leave telling him about Flori, the better. I
may be the mage, but I ve never been able to keep anything from Bal.
Nor I, lodged in Telmaine s throat, so painfully she thought she would gag on it. Teeth clenched, she
pressed on upstairs.
Bal lay on his side, on their bed, his breathing slow and deep beneath the quilts piled over him. There
was no dreadful sickroom odor, no fumes of bizarre herbs or potions, just a faint scent of new-cut grass.
You had to think to know that it did not belong here, in this small city house. She chose not to think.
Very carefully, she drew off her gloves, eased her weight onto the bed, and crept her hand across the
quilt to overlap his. Through his skin she could feel how much stronger he was since the last time she had
touched him, his breathing no longer an effort against gravity and air, his pain merely monotonous rather
than agonizing. He was not healed, but he was healing, and his sweet essence was unchanged. She curled
up with her forehead against his hand, drinking in that essence. He did not stir.
Four
Ishmael
Ishmael dismounted from the carriage at an address in the fashionable quarter of town. The hour was
most unfashionable, and his dress well behind fashion, but at least after a sleepless, hectic night and day
he might be taken for fashionably played-out. He padded up the wide stairs and hung on the doorbell
until an impassive manservant admitted him. He handed over his calling token and waited, feet apart and
stoic, wondering what he would do if he were denied admission. In this household, a mage s welcome [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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