Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

26

A familiar sound greeted Mhera's ears. At first, she could not place it; it was an intermittent croaking sound from somewhere nearby. She grasped hold of it to anchor her as she swam to consciousness through a heavy darkness, feeling utterly exhausted—more tired than ever she had felt in her life. She stirred, but her limbs were leaden. The weight of her body brought her further into the moment.

She was lying on her back on something soft. Around her, she smelled dust and the comfortable scent of old leather and paper.

Mhera slowly opened her eyes. It was still night, but now the darkness was tinted pink with the light from the rose moon. The first thing she saw with her waking eye was a round, white ceiling with a spray of golden stars painted across it. An eternity seemed to have passed; how long had she been asleep? But it could not have been so long, if dawn had not yet come. She followed the meandering trail of the painted stars, trying to ground herself, until her eyes alighted on the towering bookshelves of the Archmage's Tower.

Lorekeeper Eovin's domain. Thanks be to the Goddess. I am safe.

Mhera turned her head and saw the source of the sound that had woken her: the lorekeeper's raven, sitting on his perch and croaking in irritation. She raised herself to her elbows. Her head swam with dizziness and she had to close her eyes for a moment. When it had passed, she pulled herself up to sit.

A soft groan came from nearby. A bolt of fear shot through Mhera's body, awakening her senses down to her fingertips. She looked over and saw her captor on all fours on the floor. He was nearly doubled over with his head hanging down.

Mhera scrambled to her feet. Again, a wave of dizziness passed over her, and blackness shrouded her vision for a moment, threatening to bring her down. She stumbled to the side, flinging out an arm to catch herself on the lorekeeper's wooden table before she could fall. She was exhausted. Physically exhausted. Her muscles protested as if she had spent the entire day in some kind of hard labor.

Yet Mhera had underestimated this man in the prison, and she would not do so again. The reality of her situation struck her, threatening panic. She looked around the room; the lorekeeper was not present. The door to his bedchamber, normally closed, stood open now. No sound nor movement came from within. Terror fluttered in Mhera's stomach like a bird beating its wings.

Mhera looked at the stranger again, considering her chances. He seemed to be in pain, half curled up on the floor, and he was paying her no attention. She could run. She could try. But where would she go? Could she be fast enough to escape him? She remembered how frail he'd seemed and yet how strong he had revealed himself to be. She could almost feel his hand still tight around her wrist, a manacle. He'd deceived her before and might only be pretending weakness now.

And she felt so tired. She did not know if she could walk, let alone run.

The man bent over further. A tremor seemed to rattle from his very bones. He clutched at his stomach and vomited weakly onto the rug.

Mhera's instincts made her decision for her without consulting her mind. She grabbed up her skirt and sleeves, turned, and ran.

She had not yet taken six steps when she was stopped by a sudden pain that tore the breath from her throat—well before she gained the door out into the hall. She did not even make it past the man crouched on the floor between her and her escape. It was like nothing she had felt before: a prickling shock somewhere deep in her core, and then an ugly, throbbing pain that gripped her heart with burning fingers. Mhera staggered and fell forward onto her knees, barely catching herself with her hands to avoid falling face-first onto the rug.

As the pain throbbed and faded, Mhera struggled to catch her breath. She heard a weak cough and another retching sound. The man was heaving again, but it sounded like his stomach was already empty.