Page 35 of The Seeker
“Why am I not surprised?”
He grunted in pain when she whispered another spell.
“He killed that man without hesitation. I needed to make sure you were safe.”
You stubborn ass.
“Do I look vulnerable, Rhys?” She leaned closer. “Do you really think he could have withstood the amount of pain you’re in right now?”
Rhys pressed his eyes closed, steadying himself. In any other circumstance, Meera would be impressed by how he withstood magic that brought most men to their knees. But all she could think about was Grigori dust at her gate and the smell of blood in the air.
“I am not trying to intrude on your privacy,” he said. “I could have found you if I’d tried.”
“I’m sure you think that.”
“I know it.” He stepped closer despite the obvious pain he was in. “I know who you are, but don’t underestimate me. You don’t know who I am.”
Rhys was so close Meera could feel the heat from his skin. His nose started to bleed, and Meera whispered a spell to ease some of the pain.
She didn’t want his blood on her floor.
“I know who you are, Rhys of Glast,” she said. “You’re like all the others.”
“If you really think that, then you haven’t been paying attention.”
Haven’t I?
Some deeper instinct pricked her mind, and Meera lifted her shields for a split second before she slammed them down. It wasn’t fast enough to shut out the bell-like clarity of his soul voice.
No. No no no no no.
It couldn’t be. It was a trick of her mind brought on by an emotionally trying night. That was all. Meera wouldn’t meet his eyes, so she looked at the lean muscle that crossed his chest. The black-inkedtalesmscribed over his shoulders were just visible under the white cotton shirt he wore.
“I’m leaving now.” Rhys straightened his hunched shoulders. “Call me if anyone else comes.”
“You’re the last person I would ever call for help, you stubborn, intrusiveass. If you tell anyone where I live—”
He walked toward the door. “I have no interest in telling anyone where you live. I’m not generous enough for that. And I won’t return, not until you invite me.”
Not if you were the last scribe on earth.
As if reading her thoughts, Rhys turned. His nose had started bleeding again. “Youwillinvite me.”
Her house feltempty after he left, even though he’d only been there for a few minutes. The scribe’s presence lingered like the spices from the étouffée she threw in the trash. The scent of his magic haunted her senses, but it was more than that.
The bell-like timbre of his soul voice had shaken Meera to her core.
“You must take a mate, Meera Bai, for there is no better protection and counsel than a scribe bonded to you by magic. He will be your one true confidant in the world and your most fervent ally. If you are fortunate as I was, love will be your companion, but do not look for areshon. That blessing is not for those who hold the memory of our people. To take areshonmeans to have your very soul linked to another, and your soul must be only yours, for it is the one thing you will ever truly own. The heir of Anamitra does not belong to herself but to all the Irina and those yet to come.”
The memory of her great-aunt’s words came to her as they always did, with utter clarity, as if the old singer was still sitting next to her in the gardens of Udaipur. The fountains trickled in the background, the palms rustled in the arid breeze, and Anamitra’s ageless voice filled her mind.
Most Irin people thought Anamitra had stopped her longevity spells when her mate was lost, but Meera knew the truth. She could only stop her longevity spells once a suitable heir had been born.
By tradition, the keeper of memories would come from Anamitra’s own blood. Unfortunately, Anamitra only had one child, a son who had not lived to maturity. But her niece had given birth to a daughter, and that daughter had shown the power of memory before she could speak.
Meera had been given to Anamitra as her heir. Her birth name, forgotten. She became Meera Bai, heir of Anamitra, keeper of heaven’s songs, living archive of Irina memory and magic. Her rooms were moved to Anamitra’s wing of the fortress, and every moment was spent with the old singer as her great-aunt began lessons that would last two hundred years and occupy every moment of Meera’s life.
She was a walking repository of Irina memory, a library that lived and breathed, a counselor to kings and queens. As seers saw into the future, Meera could delve into the past, magically accessing the trove of memory Anamitra had woven into her mind.
