Magic Study

Magic Study

Talk ceased the minute we entered. All eyes focused on me. My skin crawled. I felt as if they were examining every inch of my face, my clothes and my muddy boots. From their expressions, I gathered I wasn’t meeting expectations. I stifled the desire to hide behind Irys. Regret that I hadn’t asked Irys more questions about the Zaltanas thumped in my chest.

At last, an older man stepped forward. “I’m Bavol Cacao Zaltana, Elder Councilman for the Zaltana family. Are you Yelena Liana Zaltana?”

I hesitated. That name sounded so formal, so connected, so foreign. “My name is Yelena,” I said.

A young man a few years older than I pushed through the crowd. He stopped next to the Elder. Squinting hard, his jade-eyed gaze bore into mine. A mixture of hatred and revulsion creased his face. I felt a slight touch of magic brush my body.

“She has killed,” he called out. “She reeks of blood.”

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2012.

HarperCollins Publishers, 1 London Bridge, London SE1 9GF

© Maria V. Snyder 2012

ISBN 978-1-472-01108-4

Version: 2018-10-26

Also by New York Times bestselling author

Maria V. Snyder

Opal Cowan series

STORM GLASS

SEA GLASS

SPY GLASS

Yelena Zaltana series

POISON STUDY

MAGIC STUDY

FIRE STUDY

The Insider series

INSIDE OUT

OUTSIDE IN

Avry of Kazan series

touch of power

scent of magic

www.miraink.co.uk

THE TERRITORY OF IXIA

To my children, Luke and Jenna,

a constant source of inspiration and love. You both are truly magical.

In loving memory of Anthony Foster.

A wholehearted thank-you to the one who holds down the fort while I’m doing book events, who gets the dishes done and the kids to soccer, who has been my biggest fan and supporter from the very beginning, my husband, Rodney.

To my Seton Hill University critique partners, Chun Lee, Amanda Sablak, Ceres Wright, thanks for all the help. Also many thanks go to my Seton Hill mentor, Steven Piziks. I hope you find enough descriptive details!

I couldn’t forget to thank my Muse and Schmooze critique group for their continued support and guidance. Your help has been wonderful, and our biannual retreats and coffee-bar conversations are much loved.

Many thanks and praise go to my excellent editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey. Despite her busy schedule, she always finds time to answer my million questions.

And a heartfelt thanks to Susan Kraykowski and her horse Kiki. Without them both, I wouldn’t have learned how to ride, and I wouldn’t have discovered the unique bond between horse and rider.

“WE’RE HERE,” IRYS SAID.

I looked around. The surrounding jungle bulged with life. Overgrown green bushes blocked our path, vines hung from the tree canopy, and the constant chatter and trill of jungle birds beat at my ears. Small furry creatures, who had been following us through the jungle, peeked at us from their hiding spots behind huge leaves.

“Where?” I asked, glancing at the three other girls. They shrugged in unison, equally confused. In the thick humid air, their thin cotton dresses were soaked in sweat. My own black pants and white shirt clung to my clammy skin. We were tired from lugging our heavy backpacks along snake-thin jungle paths, and itchy from hosting unnameable insects on our skins.

“The Zaltana homestead,” Irys said. “Quite possibly your home.”

I surveyed the lush greenery and saw nothing that resembled a settlement. During the course of our travels south, whenever Irys had declared that we had arrived, we were usually in the midst of a small town or village, with houses made of wood, stone or brick, hemmed in by fields and farms.

The brightly dressed inhabitants would welcome us, feed us and, amid a cacophony of voices and spicy aromas, listen to our story. Then certain families would be summoned with great haste. In a whirlwind of excitement and babble, one of the children in our party, who had lived in the orphanage in the north, would be reunited with a family they hadn’t known existed.