The Source of Magic: A Fantasy Romance

by Rowan, Cate

  “Farewell.” Nenth’s gaze was eerily unwavering.

  “Goodbye, Jilian,” Varene said warmly. “I’ll come to see you in a while.”

  Nodding again, Jilian swung the door open just enough to walk through. When she closed it behind her she rested against it, glad to feel the dappled sunshine and hear the wind rustle the leaves.

  “Alvarr?”

  At the sound of Varene’s voice, Alvarr pushed his chair away from the desk where he’d been scanning his official correspondence and stretched, grateful for the respite. “How are the patients?”

  She glided toward his desk. “Rokad’s fine. If it weren’t for some lingering weakness and a slight paleness, I’d say he’s healthy. Findar’s mending well, too. His mind is hurt worse than his body. But Nenth…” Varene pursed her lips.

  “Yes?” He waited, tension building in his temples.

  “She’s depressed. The fever hasn’t passed from her. She keeps her curtains closed and barely speaks. She’s just not the same.”

  Alvarr lowered his head and rubbed his fingers against his mouth. “Yes, I thought she’d take it the hardest. But there must be something you can do?”

  “My strongest herbs are barely touching her symptoms. She needs more than medicine. She’s trapped in the loss.”

  Guilt rolled through him anew. He might as well have drained her magic himself. “I’ll speak with her. Convince her how valuable she is to the Council, to Teganne…”

  For an instant, Varene seemed to eye him as if he were dense, but she sighed and shook her head.

  “What was that for?”

  “Nothing.” She reached for his arm and patted it. “By the way, since Jilian’s almost recovered from her arrow wound, I’d like to move her out of the healing rooms and into some proper guest quarters.”

  “That’s fine, but have Bran put her in the royal wing near my chambers. I don’t want to cross through half the castle before dawn to collect her tomorrow.”

  “Mmm,” was all Varene said, before turning away with a sparkle to her eyes.

  Alvarr watched her leave, perplexed. He pushed himself back to the desk and glanced at the topmost missive, but his concentration was broken. Absently he shoved the stack away and stared out the window toward the Neril Mountains, their distant and forbidding peaks shrouded by gray clouds.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Back in the healing room, the noise of someone politely clearing his throat interrupted Jilian’s wandering thoughts. She turned to find a bearded man in an umber tunic and tan leggings at the doorway. He looked comfortably sturdy, with a quiet air that suggested he could handle many burdens, physical or otherwise.

  “I’m Bran, the Royal Seneschal. You must be Jilian na Sara.”

  “I am.” She rose from the table and stepped toward him.

  “Now that you’re nearly healed,” he said with a smile and a nod at her shoulder, “I’m giving you guest quarters in the royal wing.”

  She glanced around the sunny room. She’d grown used to it. The royal wing, huh? At least he hadn’t said she’d be moved to Alvarr’s quarters. Although…

  Stop that, she told herself, squashing a thought that could turn erotic. I don’t need any more trouble. “That would be lovely. I’ll just collect my clothes.” She reached for the blue gown and underkirtles.

  “Please,” Bran said, “allow me.” He folded the clothing over his arm with care.

  After a last glance at the familiar territory of the room, she followed Bran through the castle. Rich tapestries lined the halls they crossed, with woven scenes ranging from fierce battles of sword-wielding armies to quiet forests under starlit skies. She wondered whether the stories displayed in the fabric depicted the history of this world, and how that history differed from Earth’s. Perhaps this world wasn’t so different after all… And based on the tapestries’ landscapes, it might be every bit as beautiful. How much of it would she get to see?

  At last Bran stopped before a silver-trimmed door and pushed it open, stepping back so she could enter.

  “Oh!” Jilian grinned in delight. The simple bed in the healing room had been comfortable enough, but here was a burnished four-poster with a white canopy and a fluffy, cream-colored bedspread spilling in decadence onto the rug. The rug’s vibrant colors streamed in abstract swirls from one side to another, stopping beneath a wide window with gold-flecked curtains. The late afternoon sunshine flowed into the suite, lighting the gold flecks until they sparkled.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  “I’m glad you find it pleasing,” Bran said with quiet pride. “If you’d allow me to take care of these for you?” He gestured at his gown-draped arm.

  “After you,” she said, waving him in.

  For a large man, he moved with grace. He glided to a very respectable wardrobe, where he hung the clothing from pegs. Returning, he handed her a long silver key with an intricately twined handle. “Just one other thing, if you will—Healer Varene would like to see you. I can leave you here to settle in, or I can take you to her now.”

  “Now is fine.” She trailed out behind Bran, shooting another admiring glance about the suite.

  They met Varene in a spacious herbal preparation room. Shelves lining the back wall held labeled glass containers of every shape and size. Jilian sniffed the air, which practically exploded with the scents of potent herbs.

  Varene stood on top of a stool, adding dried leaves to a jar on a high shelf. When Bran cleared his throat to announce their presence, she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, Bran, thank you for bringing her,” she said, climbing down. “Do you like your new quarters, Jilian?”

  “They’re lovely.”

  “A job well done, then, Bran,” she said and winked at the seneschal.

  “My pleasure as always.” He smiled, nodded at both women, and departed.

  Varene took Jilian’s arm and steered her toward a table against one wall. “I want to show you what to look for.”

  On the table lay several open books, loose leaves of paper, and a sage green silk bag. “These are the volumes I’ve found that refer to starlace. Not as many as I’d hoped, but I think they’ll do. I’ve done my best to copy the sketches for you, since it’s vital you recognize the herb.”

  Jilian picked up a sheet of paper, matched it to one of the books, and whistled in appreciation. “You’re a wonderful artist.”

  Smiling, Varene waved off the compliment. “A necessary skill. Farmers and woodsmen need to be able to identify the plants so they’ll take Healers and herbalists to the right places for collection.”

  Varene’s fingers traced the edges of the books. “I wish I could send these books with you on your journey, but they’re irreplaceable, and I consult them often. You’ll want to memorize the passages, or copy them down. I’ve gathered extra script-leaves for you and a stylus. Oh—do you write, on your world?”

  Jilian laughed, nodding, and reached out to finger the thin, opalescent stylus.

  “Pay close attention to how to gather the herb,” Varene added. “It’s best to do it in the morning, after the dew has evaporated. The starlace will travel better if you let it dry so it won’t wilt or mold. Carry it with this.” She handed Jilian the silk bag. Her voice softened. “I’ve put a small guard-spell on the bag. It’s an old Healers’ trick, and I don’t know how well it can protect the starlace on your travels, but it might help.”

  Jilian touched her hand. “Thank you. I’m grateful, and my mother will be, too. I just hope she does have Shadow’s Quilt, and that we can find the starlace in time.”

  “I hope for a cure also. It’s difficult to lose one’s parents. No matter what the age.” She squeezed Jilian’s arm. “Mine passed decades ago and I still grieve.”

  Straightening, she continued. “You can take everything back to your quarters and look over it tonight before the oath-taking. Alvarr said you’d leave early in the morning.”

  The oath. Jilian had managed to put that out of her mind.


  She slid the stylus into a pocket of her gown and gathered the books, writing leaves, and silken bag in her arms. Despite the load, her wound didn’t pain her, which meant she was almost completely healed.

  “Should I guide you back?” Varene asked.

  “Thanks, but I think I have my bearings now.”

  “Then I’ll see you at the ceremony. It’ll be a joy to watch you pledge yourself for the good of Teganne.”

  Jilian nodded and turned away, not trusting herself to speak.

  Alvarr knocked on Nenth’s heavy door. Dusk was settling in, but she hadn’t flamed the nearby torch. He noted the drawn curtains, a contrast to the cheery light emanating from Rokad’s quarters across the courtyard or even the subdued glow from Findar’s window, where the man read by candlelight.

  He was about to knock again when the door abruptly opened. Nenth blinked in the twilight. Beyond her, the house lay in darkness.

  “Nenth,” Alvarr began, a little shaken. “What’s all this? What is happening to you?”

  She stared back for a few moments. “I don’t know,” she said at last.

  “May I come in?”

  Nodding, she stepped to the side to let him pass.

  “Dahentok,” he said, allowing the ambient light to rise gradually so it wouldn’t shock her. She stood in place, gazing at him palely.

  Pale as the death she almost suffered because of my error. “Come,” he said, and led her to the bench. He seated himself next to her, then sighed. “The loss of your magic must be…horrific.”

  Gazing at him, she gave a tiny nod.

  Not once had he guessed he might wound them all this way—his fellow mages, his Councilors, his friends! “I’m so very sorry, Nenth. I’d never deliberately hurt you, yet my mistake has caused you great sorrow.”

  She shook her head a fraction. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said, unable to keep a tang of bitterness from his voice. “Then whose?”

  Watching him, she only shrugged.

  “Nenth, I’m the one who made the decision to find the Source, who brought the wrong person back, and I’m the one who escaped unscathed. By Fate, if I could trade my magic for yours—”

  “No.” She grasped his wrist.

  He studied her blank eyes, her pallid cheeks. What could he say to a person whose life he’d ruined?

  She has to have something to live for. Make her see that she’s still needed, just as others once did for you. “You have to know—I have to be sure you understand—how much I depend on you in the Council. Your power’s gone, but you’re still wise in the craft. Please, please, have faith in your recovery. The Council needs you. Teganne needs you.”

  Nenth straightened slowly, watching Alvarr. She heard his words…as well as the ones he didn’t say. She searched his face for what she sought, but couldn’t find it.

  Her eyes closed tightly and her hand slipped away. He doesn’t see, he will not see.

  “You understand, don’t you?” he pleaded.

  Yes, she did. Too well.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alone in her new suite, Jilian pored over the books Varene had given her. She had to glean all the information she could. No room for error, not with her mother’s life at stake. She took notes with the stylus and script-leaves, then stared at drawings of the herb until they felt permanently etched on her brain.

  The torches in her room burst into flame, startling her. Hey, warn a body, would you? She glanced out the window to the dusk outside, then laughed. Timed magical torches—definitely a unique kind of electricity.

  Then she stiffened. Dusk… Alvarr said I’d take the oath tonight.

  She leapt up and paced the room. More lies she’d have to tell. How could she pledge an oath of fealty toward Alvarr when she was planning to escape? Or were words just words?

  She’d grown up to be a conscientious, honest person—or so she’d thought. Yet here she was deceiving everyone.

  Jilian threw her hands wide. Didn’t she have the right to go home, especially when she’d been taken from it against her will? And didn’t she have the right to try to save her mother’s life?

  Home was Earth, and everything familiar.

  And yet her mother had been born here in Teganne. She’d known these people, shared with them, entwined her life with theirs. And apparently, had sworn an oath herself to help them.

  Then she’d left. Much like Jilian was planning to do.

  She sank to the edge of the plush carpet. With spread fingertips, she traced the bare stone floor, exploring the small, jagged asymmetries in the slabs. Rough in places, but solid and real. Like this world and its citizens were turning out to be. What would happen to them if she didn’t stay?

  But for Heaven’s sakes, her mother. The person who loved her most and who needed her now.

  Besides, her mother had been born here but chose Earth. Didn’t that say something?

  Which is more important, my integrity or staying alive and free? Saving my mother’s realm and people, or being with her and saving her life?

  She groaned at the tangle in her mind and stalked back to the chair. Maybe she could browse through the books and distract herself.

  The first tome contained descriptions of various herbs, their uses, how to preserve them, which plants were toxic and under which circumstances. At the end was a section of handwritten notes, in what looked to be a woman’s curving script. “Keep Hartsfoot cool. Trennel needs to steep in liquor twice as long as advised.” And then, in a dreamy, swooping scrawl that took up an entire page, “I love Dar. Will he be mine?”

  Jilian clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. She’d written similar swooning pleas in her own school notebooks.

  Varene had lent her these books—were the notes Varene’s? Jilian blew out an amused breath. But the healer had said she would search the castle records, so if these books were part of those records, other people may have accessed them over the years and jotted notes.

  Intrigued, Jilian eyed the page again, then searched through the drawings Varene had made for a sample of the Healer’s handwriting. She found no script on the drawings, and sat back, disappointed.

  Idly, she flipped one over. There she spotted the hastily scrawled words “Burdish: 3 bags.”

  Hmm, not much to go on, but the script looked similar. In fact, remarkably similar.

  Grinning, she felt sure of it. Varene had written the love note!

  So who was this guy? She ticked off the small number of others she knew here. Alvarr… Bran… Rokad… Thoren… Nenth was a woman. Findar… Findar!

  She giggled through her spread fingers. Could it be?

  A knock at the door made her jump. Still smiling, she closed the book and went to answer it.

  Standing on the other side was Alvarr, both hands braced on the molding. He jerked upright as though he hadn’t expected her to answer so quickly.

  They locked eyes, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Her insides fizzed and warmed, and her lips curved in response before she knew it. Ack! Stop it, you idiot!

  She wrested her gaze away and stepped back so he could enter. “Come in.”

  A tingling warmth rose in her traitorous body as he passed by. She scowled. Damned if she was going to succumb to this. She smoothed her expression into a blank façade.

  “Are you ready to take the oath?” He stood there, all too confident and scrumptious. Sexuality radiated from him like heat in a kiln. He was invading her space. And her mind. And her life.

  After a breath, she nodded. “Where do we go?”

  “To the Courtiers’ Throne Room.” His eyes took on an amused glint. “And there’s something I want to show you.”

  His hand moved and she gave it a wary stare, but he merely waved her back toward the corridor. “It’s already in the Throne Room.”

  She grabbed her new key from a hook and eyed him sideways before walking into the hall. One side of his mouth curled up when she pulled the door shut behind th
em and locked it with decisive clatter.

  As she removed the key, he stood close enough that she felt his breath on her ear. “Do you have something of value in there, or are you making certain I know you have a lock?”

  She spun around to protest—though of what, she wasn’t sure, since he was right—but he’d already started down the hallway.

  His stride was long and he moved with all the unconscious grace of an alpha male—straight back, wide and commanding shoulders, an easy swing to his gait. Trailing behind him, she let her eyes stray to those powerful shoulders, the narrow waist, his nicely rounded…

  Hissing through her teeth, she trotted to catch up with him. He glanced at her, a teasing grin firmly planted on his lips. She looked ahead, fuming.

  The Courtiers’ Throne Room was the smaller of the castle’s two throne rooms and stationed a short walk away within the Royal wing. Light from the arched doorway spilled onto the hall runner and a tuneless humming escaped from the chamber.

  Alvarr stopped several feet before the threshold, his face in a polite mask, and waved Jilian in front of him.

  She entered the room…and stopped short as she saw Alvarr watching her from the center of it.

  She whipped her head around, only to see Alvarr behind her as well.

  Her gaze shot back and forth between the two Alvarrs. Backing away in a different direction, hands spread protectively in front of her, she tried to keep them both in sight. “H…How…” She bumped into a rough stone wall.

  The Alvarr who’d been behind her collapsed in laughter against the doorframe. The other one began to chuckle, his own gaze swinging from Jilian to his twin by the door.

  From the corner of her eye Jilian saw a third person, his expression scrunched up in mirth. Thoren.

  Half-bent with laughter, the Alvarr behind her said, “Sorry…I’m sorry, Jilian. But the look on your face!”