The Source of Magic: A Fantasy Romance

by Rowan, Cate

  KISMET’S KISS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “She will come.” Old Dabir’s clouded eyes fixed on Kuramos, the Great Sultan of Kad, who had been holding vigil at his bedside for hours.

  “She?” Kuramos enfolded his mentor’s trembling fingers between his own bejeweled hands. “It doesn’t matter, Abha. Sleep now. We’ll talk later.”

  “There will be no later.”

  Kuramos’s jaw tightened. His gaze slid away, seeking refuge among the scrolls, piled sketches, and leather-bound tomes cramming Dabir’s sizable palace quarters. “Don’t say such things. Your illness isn’t like that of the others. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Silence gnawed at Kuramos until he turned back to the bed. The gray eyes of the shriveled Grand Vizir were half-blinded by cataracts, but still held more wisdom than any other man in Kuramos’s realm could claim. Those eyes gazed at him now, and neither man spoke further of the truth they both knew.

  Kuramos’s head grew heavy with grief, the muscles in his battle-proud neck almost too weary to hold it up.

  “Call for her.” Dabir’s voice quavered. “She will come.” His hand fluttered against Kuramos’s enclosing palms like a bird preparing for flight.

  Kuramos frowned. “Call who, Abha?” Dabir’s relatives were long dead. The Grand Vizir was a venerable six hundred years old, and Kuramos had known him for nearly two hundred of those years. There was no one left.

  “It won’t be easy for you, Zyru,” Dabir murmured, his voice so frail that Kuramos nearly missed the precious word. He could count the times it had been spoken to him, this endearment from a father to his son—as Dabir now was to Kuramos in all but blood.

  “What won’t be easy?” He flattened both hands around Dabir’s, as if by calming the tremors he could prevent Dabir from leaving.

  “You are the husam al din of our people. Your faith, your ways are dear to you, as hers are to her. Will you bend, or will she? Perhaps neither.” Dabir gave a short chuckle; it twisted into a hacking cough that racked his gaunt body.

  Kuramos reached for an almond-scented handkerchief and held it to his mentor’s mouth. When the coughing spell had eased, the white linen was stained with spatters of blood.

  Dabir’s gaze, less focused by the minute, swept Kuramos’s face. “I wish…” But pain furrowed his brow, and the words faltered.

  Kuramos swallowed and clasped Dabir’s hand again. Why, Naaz? Why must You take him now? Why must You take any of them! He hurled his despair towards the goddess’s home in the sky, but refused to look toward Her. Dabir would notice.

  A soft tapping at the door yanked him from his thoughts. The sultan turned with a furious rebuke on his tongue.

  His steward, Hamar, bowed deeply from the threshold. “O Lord, my most humble apologies for disturbing you, but Yaman needs your counsel. The illness has spread.”

  If it had been anyone else, or any other news, Kuramos would have flayed the intruder. Instead, he gave a terse nod. “Have him meet me in my chambers. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Hamar bowed low again and backed out, closing the door without looking up.

  Kuramos turned to Dabir. “I’m sorry, Abha…”

  Dabir rolled his head feebly on the pillow. “It’s time. Look to Teganne.”

  Teganne? Shards of ice in Kuramos’s heart thawed in yearning, then bitterly re-froze.

  Dabir’s fingers, weightless as fallen leaves, tugged at Kuramos’s hand, and at his heart. All hope drained away.

  He raised the oval sapphire ring of the Sultanate of Kad to Dabir’s parched lips.

  Hoary breaths leaked from his mentor as he kissed the ring. “O Lord, I hope I have served you well.”

  “Always, Dabir ib Rubai.” Kuramos’s voice broke. “As I hope I have ruled you.”

  “Always,” came the whisper. “She comes. And I go.” With that, the life Naaz had bestowed upon Dabir departed for the Sands of the Dead.

  Evening settled over the palace as Kuramos paced the elegant rugs and marble of his chambers. When servants entered on silent feet to light the torches and bring a beverage, he turned away and gazed at his garden of jasmine and roses under the silvered moon. At last the servants withdrew, drawing the massive double doors closed with a click.

  The sultan leaned against the arch of an open window, lifted his glass and stared into the drink. Ice carried by oxen down the Ravia Mountains cooled his pomegranate juice. The chunks, cut to resemble the soaring arches of his palace, bobbed in the sweet red liquid like drowning men.

  He hurled the glass against the mosaic wall, where it shattered with a satisfying crash. The juice slithered down the azure and ivory tiles, rivulets of blood against the span of his life.

  How many others would die?

  The best glass from Jindua was supposed to break into large chunks; the glass had been true. He knelt and picked up a shard. The wet surface glittered in the flickering torchlight.

  He slid the jagged tip across his index finger. Thick drops of blood welled to the surface and rolled over the shard. Real blood, now…the blood of his family, his household.

  The Royal Physician, Yaman, had brought a list of those in the palace afflicted by the illness. Eleven names were on it: palace servants, stable boys, the master baker, a guardsman, the royal children’s head teacher…and Dabir. Three had already died. Several others were very close.

  None of his immediate family had been struck—yet. That his children’s teacher was one of those near death worried him immensely.

  Those who lived in Kuramos’s palace, even the servants, ate unspoiled food, had fresh rushes for their pallets and drank from the blessed stream that flowed through the palace enclosure. They should be the least likely to succumb to any illness—but they had. He’d had no reports of a blight spreading outside the gates. The hand of death was inside his home.

  Naaz’s hand.

  He turned away and felt glass crunch under his sandals. I’ll call a servant to clean it, he thought, then dismissed the idea. The last thing he needed now was another intrusion.

  With his foot, he pushed the chunks into a pile. The juice stained the tawny leather of his sandal. He snapped off a broad leaf from the potted palm in the corner, folded the fractured pieces into the leaf and tossed the mess into the waste sack.

  He reached for another leaf to wipe the juice from the tiles, but let his fingers drop away. The blood should stay. It was a reminder.

  If Dabir were still alive, they would have found a solution, a way out, together. Now he would have to do that alone.

  She will come, Dabir had said.

  Had he meant Naaz?

  Kuramos shuddered.

  More of Dabir’s words floated back to him. “Look to Teganne.” Why there, of all places? Teganne…

  Was it possible? Could “she” be Qiara?

  Kuramos’s heart stumbled, and he stepped to the archway of his garden to let the fragrant, humid air fill his lungs.

  Qiara had haunted his dreams for long months after he’d allowed her to escape. Beautiful, willful, insolent—and the most alluring woman he’d ever known. She was the princess of the neighboring realms of Teganne and Fallorm, and he’d have given half his sultanate to have her. Even though she’d been sired by that uncultured gerbil, Prince Alvarr.

  But he’d let her go, and had given her damned sorcerer lover his freedom, too. Now they had a young child and ruled Fallorm, while Qiara’s parents held Teganne.

  No, Dabir’s “she” couldn’t be Qiara. She was a married woman, forbidden to Kuramos—and the Grand Vizir had known it. Besides, Dabir hadn’t spoken of Fallorm, but Teganne.

  Teganne, pah. How could that cursed land of mages and fools help him save his family?

  Behind him, the curtain of pearls dividing the harem quarters from his receiving chamber tinkled. He turned with a scowl, only to find his ebony-maned sixth wife, Sulya, with Tahir, their son. His expression thawed under the five-year-old’s solemn gaze. “Tahir, my little leopard
. It’s a joy to see you. And you, Sulya,” he said more absently.

  “Abha,” Tahir said, “I don’t feel good.” His dark hair was tousled, sweaty.

  Sulya’s sharp nails rested on Tahir’s shoulder, her cold jade eyes tight with worry.

  “He is fevered, O Lord.” The undercurrent of alarm in her voice stabbed at Kuramos’s self-control.

  His gaze flicked down to the boy, whose skin seemed flushed and hot—just as the illness had begun in the others.

  The sultan clenched his fists. Naaz, you cannot take my son!

  In two swift strides, he’d gathered Tahir into his arms. “How long have you felt this way, Zyru?”

  Tahir pursed his lips as if concentrating, then shrugged and laid his small head, light as a sparrow’s, on his father’s shoulder.

  Kuramos looked over his son’s head to Sulya, who stared back in brittle, wide-eyed fear.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Many miles away in the realm of Teganne, the Royal Healer Varene na Seryn stood alone by an unlit funeral pyre, gazing down on the lifeless body of the man she’d loved in vain.

  Embroidered ivory vines spiraled over the black linen that draped from his thin shoulders to his calloused feet. The shroud hid the deadly gash he’d incurred rescuing a beggar woman from a gang of thugs, but Varene couldn’t staunch her awareness of the wound, or of the life that had poured from it into the dust.

  Once upon a time, the powerful magic in Findar’s soul would have protected him, but a madman had torn away his magery years before. Varene’s healing should have saved him, but she’d reached him too late.

  Too late.

  Now, for the first time in her life, she ran her fingers through Findar’s ash-blond hair. It was as fine and soft as she’d always imagined. “All these years,” she whispered, “I longed for you. I’d hoped you would stay here and see what was in my heart. That you’d end your wandering and be with me. That someday I could cure you of your restlessness.”

  She lifted an edge of the linen and stroked his knuckles. “You saved the beggar woman, ‘Dar. But I couldn’t save you.” The cloth fell back into place, and leaning down, she kissed his finely-shaped lips. Her tear splashed his pale cheek.

  On unsteady legs, she slipped back through the velvety grass to the waiting circle of mourners and took a torch from the hand of Alvarr, Teganne’s ruling prince. Next to him, in a matching onyx mourning tunic, stood his wife. When Jilian’s wet eyes met Varene’s, each woman struggled for breath.

  Varene returned to Findar and laid the torch on the kindling at the pyre’s base. The flames hesitated, as if waiting for a signal, then licked upward and outward. Seeking. Burning.

  Watching the fire writhe, Varene backed away until she stood beside Jilian. Alvarr didn’t speak, but Varene sensed the shared weight of his grief. The princess reached out and clasped Varene’s hand, and the warmth and life of Jilian’s skin contrasted with the memory of Findar’s cold flesh.

  As flames climbed the legs of the bier, Varene began to tremble. Soon even Findar’s body would be gone—nothing but ash would be left of the man she’d quietly loved for five decades.

  Burning wood scented the air. Through the rising smoke she stared at his face, peaceful at last in death. Mother Fate had quieted his journeying in the most final way.

  And I was a fool.

  Fire licked the bier’s edges. She steeled herself for the moment when the flames would touch him, would take him into the beyond. She threaded her fingers tighter through Jilian’s, seeking strength…but soon turned away, biting her lip to halt its quiver.

  Alvarr muttered a quick spell, then placed his gentle palm at her back. “I’ve veiled the sight of it, ‘Rene. No need for you to watch.”

  She touched the shoulder of her longtime friend in gratitude, then looked at Jilian, blank-faced. “Thank you. Thank you both.” The princess embraced her as Alvarr stood close, head bowed.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jilian whispered.

  Varene leaned against the princess and saw her own golden hair sweep over Jilian’s dark locks like morning sun over shade. The image mocked Varene, because she could radiate no warmth this day.

  She cast one last glance toward the pyre, now shrouded by Alvarr’s shimmering screen. Smoke rose above, drifting away into the sky, remnants of the love she’d waited for. A love she’d been too silent and patient to induce.

  And now the splinter in her soul was the guilt she’d never escape: Would Findar still be alive if she had bared her heart to him?

  Kuramos strode through torch-lit palace halls with his son cradled against his chest, Tahir’s small arms wrapped around his neck. Sulya followed hard on his heels, her coined anklets jangling “look at me, look at me” with every step.

  “You’re taking him to Yaman?” she asked, low-throated.

  “Yes.” He hoped she’d pay heed to his curt tone. For once.

  “That donkey! He wouldn’t know how to cure a hangnail. He should have taken his rest long ago. What good can he do?”

  “Let’s hope he can cure our son,” he growled. “Leave the past alone, Sulya.”

  “Why? It will claw at us sooner or later.” She stretched her pace to his and yanked a stray raven lock behind her ear. “You should have let me bring Bairam here. He would have known what to do.”

  Pah. Unlikely. Bairam was her brother, and an old irritant. No love was lost between Sulya and the physician Yaman, and Kuramos clenched his jaw at the memory of why. But Tahir was Sulya’s son, too. He couldn’t very well ban her from Yaman’s presence when her son was ill.

  Tahir’s dark head slumped against Kuramos’s bare chest; the heat of the fever soaked his father’s skin. The boy peered ahead, but didn’t lift his head from its rest.

  Nearing the Royal Infirmary, Kuramos spied the stone visage of Naaz above the door. Her divine face was shaped into forbidding lines, and She held the Scroll of Mercy aloft in one hand, the Torch of Vengeance in the other. He closed his eyes briefly and prayed that this time, the goddess’s mercy would be the stronger.

  “Yaman,” he said, turning into the room, “Tahir is ill, a fever—”

  He froze at the sight before him. Yaman, his Royal Physician, lay on his side on the marble floor, face toward Kuramos, pupils rolling up toward his brows. His body arched as if a tiger’s jaws clamped his back. A spreading stain of red soaked the edge of his honey-colored turban just above one ear.

  Yaman’s assistant leaned over his master, frantically pressing mir leaves against the wound. Another man, whom Kuramos recognized as an undercook from his own kitchens, sprawled unconscious across a nearby table, blood running from a large gash in the bared flesh of his stomach. Yaman’s surgical instruments lay scattered over the floor as if they’d been kicked. And even as Kuramos watched, a twitching overtook the physician, growing more powerful until his limbs flailed like thrown sticks.

  “Yaman!” the assistant shouted. “Listen to me! Come back!”

  When the physician’s limbs slackened, his assistant glanced toward the doorway. The fear lingering in his eyes crashed through Kuramos.

  He thinks Yaman will die.

  Kuramos crossed the floor and knelt at Yaman’s side, one arm still cradling Tahir. “What happened?”

  The assistant moaned. “One of the spit-dogs bit the cook. He made it here, but Yaman…Yaman…he slipped on the blood, O Lord.” His shaky fingers pointed to a red pool on the floor beneath the cook. “He hit his head on the table. Then his arms, his legs—they jerked, as you saw…”

  Tahir, who had been staring down at the physician, turned and nestled into his father’s shoulder. For a moment, Kuramos wished his son hadn’t witnessed the grotesque scene. But as a child of the sultan, death and blood were the least of what he would have to know.

  Yaman’s eyes still strained upward as if to look back into his own skull. Kuramos placed two fingers below the physician’s jaw. The pulse weakened and ceased even as he found it. He straightened and stared down at the man
who was supposed to cure the plague attacking his household.

  Yaman was dead.

  Kuramos gazed across the physician’s body at the frightened assistant. “Your name is Sohad?”

  The man nodded nervously and continued pressing the wound, though his patient could no longer be helped.

  Kuramos tapped Sohad’s arm. Surprised, Sohad stilled and released the leaves, as if now realizing they’d be of no more use. He peered at Yaman’s dead face and a keen rose from his throat, tears glistening in his eyes.

  A grim breath hovered over Kuramos’s tongue. By all the gods, the man deserved to mourn his loss! But time was merciless. As was Naaz. “Sohad! How much do you understand of the illness spreading through my palace?”

  The assistant looked up, trying to refocus his watering eyes. “Yaman and I discussed it… He didn’t know what it was.”

  “And do you?”

  He swallowed, clearly shaken. “No, O Lord.”

  “Then find someone who does.”

  Sohad bowed his head. “Yes, O Lord. And I will do my best for the patients, as poor as my contributions may be to your service—”

  “The patients you speak of now include my son, Tahir.” Kuramos’s arm tightened around the boy. “See that your best includes protecting him from the fate that befell the others.”

  Sohad bobbed anew, fingers shaking against his thighs.

  “I will send for Bairam,” Sulya said from the doorway, her voice taut as a lash.

  The sultan swung his head around. That drunken oaf couldn’t find a cure if it were on his very plate, and his fawning presence would disrupt what little peace Kuramos might carve out in the next few days. Still, Sohad’s manner did not inspire confidence.

  “Do that, Sixth Wife,” he drawled, and watched the reprimand register in her blazing eyes. She coveted the position of the honored Sha’Lai, the First Wife of the Sultan of Kad. “But also tell my scribe to call the physicians of the city here.”