Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

“What do you mean assassination attempt?”

He made a sharp sound, half-laugh, half-snort. “Still don’t trust me? Well, Keleios, someone put a binding spell on you, and I had to break it to free you from your vision. If it had been I that wanted you dead, I could have stood and watched.”

Keleios leaned against the books and closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank you for saving me.”

“It was my... pleasure.” And the last word rolled off his tongue full of obscene suggestion.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. He came closer; the red witchlight gave fiery highlights to the fur at his throat.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” His face didn’t achieve innocence, but he looked puzzled.

Keleios shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She stood, forcing herself not to cling to the shelves. “I believe we can go now.”

He made no protest, did not try to question her further. He knew the sound in her voice and it meant that the subject had been changed. It irritated her that Lothor could read her so well.

He had spent the last three months learning about her. He had questioned everyone who would talk to him and had made every effort to court her properly. Keleios wished him gone.

She staggered, and he caught her, his arm like iron under her hand. Keleios looked up at him. He was impossibly tall for a Varellian, but then he was half-human. Under the dark silk of a black healer prince were broad shoulders and a body too slender for a human of the same height and girth. Black fur edged his collar and decorated the hem of his jerkin, which fell just above his knees. The only color was the glimpse of red on red-patterned silk that told the color of his doublet, hidden under all that blackness. His hair fell straight and thick, baby fine, past his shoulders. It was the color of fresh-fallen snow. His skin was frost, and his eyes were the silver of old ice in the winter sun. He was an ice elf stretched out of shape, but still showing why they were considered one of the most beautiful of races.

Of course, the word elf was an insult to a Varellian. Keleios had never understood why, but the white elves considered themselves better than that. Calling a Varellian an elf to his or her face could get a person killed. Lothor knew nothing of being a Varellian. He would not know ice elf was an insult. Blood alone didn’t make one an elf of any kind.

She looked down and felt a blush creep up her face. She had been staring at him.

He laughed, a rich throaty sound that threw his pale face into friendly lines. Keleios tried to pull away but he held her and said, “I am sorry, but it is so seldom that you show interest. For weeks I have waited. Your favorite color is green. Your best sorceries are those dealing with fire and cold. Even though you can do many things with a flexing of mind, you prefer to use herb- witchery. You like the slow building of power. You feel more in control that way.” His arms wrapped across her back, and she glared at him. “I have studied you like a rare book. I know you, but you ignore me. Tonight you felt the drawing of my body as I feel yours.”

Anger lent her strength, and she pulled away from him, enchanted might against enchanted might. “What do you want, black healer?”

“You, to be my wife.”

“I am not ready to give you an answer.”

His silver eyes traced her body, and he said, “You should decide soon,” He stepped close and stared down at her. “ Royal marriages are so often a matter of borders, especially when the two countries in question... touch.”

“Don’t threaten me, or pressure me.” She swayed, putting a hand in front of her face. The power was back, nagging, tricking. She smiled at him, unpleasantly, and reached a hand to caress his face.

The touch of the leather glove made him jump back. Fear showed for a moment. Then a sickly smile crossed his lips. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Tonight, Lothor, I might,” She walked past him and scooped up her enchanted pouch from where it had fallen.

“I have something for that pouch of yours.”

Keleios turned reluctantly. He held out a thick black book. It was surrounded by dark flames. The first creepings of returned power strengthened at the sight of that book.

“Do you make a habit of overhearing other people’s conversations?”

“Yes.” He smiled and extended his arm. His fingers were like white roots against the black covers, as if when she reached to take it, the hand would come with it like a parasite, drawing strength.

He stood patiently as if he could stand offering her evil forever. The red glow of his sorcery turned his white hair to blood, and she touched the dagger in its arm sheath for reassurance.

She went to him.

Her hand closed on the binding, and it sent a shock through the leather glove, a burning over the mark on her palm. She knew this book, or one like it. A pale shadow of it had resided on the Grey Isle. Six years ago that slim copy, a bare handful of this book’s worth, had been used against Belor and her. It had conjured demons and opened the way to the pit. Harque the Witch had valued it above all other powers. Yet, her prophecy told her this one must be guarded. Those who come after could do great harm with it. The enchanted pouch quenched the black flames, and the book slid from sight. The burning in her hand did not stop, and she rubbed it against her leg. She had a strong desire to uncover her hand and rub the pain. There was a need to feel cool air on it. There was a great sense of lightness to her taking the book, but it was dangerous. It was peril in a way she could not define.

As if aware of the dark volume passing through her hands a cry came from nearby. “Keleios!”

She stepped from between the shelves, and she could feel Lothor following close behind. A circle of flame licked and wavered, casting orange shadows on the shelves. Glimpsed between the flames was Belor. Her last thoughts had been to keep him safe, but the flames had been so close. He was imprisoned, but not harmed, safe from her vision, but trapped.

Lothor spoke quietly. “He doesn’t look happy.”

“The vision came without proper warning. I was afraid I would harm him by accident.”

“I suppose he’s safe enough, but he isn’t going to be pleased with you.”

A shiver ran up her spine, and her left hand demanded attention. “He isn’t happy, but if I free him now, he’ll ask questions, waste time with concern and answers, and apologies.” There wasn’t time for all that, and Keleios turned and walked down the main aisle. Belor did not yell after her; perhaps he could not see through the flames.

Lothor followed witchlight bobbing ahead of them like a bloated will o’ wisp.

When they stood in the open hallway, she turned to him. “I thank you for your help, but I am feeling much better now. My destination lies only a few steps away.”

“I am not so easily dismissed. You are still weak. I will see you through the door.”

“I do not need your protection, Prince Lothor.”

“But I have already protected all your prophecies tonight.”

“All my prophecies?” “I was prophet keeper tonight.”

Anger and something close to fear flashed through her. “You do not belong to this school. You are only a guest, albeit a long-staying one.”

He smiled, and his silver eyes glittered. “I have been here so long, I have been granted privileges.”

The power was returning. Her skin crawled with it, and a tic began in her left cheek. She wanted to be rid of him and his cursed question. So easy—just say it was accidental, too much power and one veiled insult too many. Keleios shook her head to clear such thoughts away. It was the sorcery talking; it wanted use. The dream was urgent, and something had to give soon.