The Source of Magic: A Fantasy Romance

by Rowan, Cate

  “I’m sorry too, Jilian,” Thoren said, extending his hand in entreaty even as he shook with laughter. “But we needed to test him…”

  “I’m sorry, too,” said the Alvarr in the middle of the room. At that, Thoren and the Alvarr by the door collapsed in howls.

  Jilian stood up furiously, arms crossed. “What’s going on?”

  Door-Alvarr pointed at Room-Alvarr. “He’s…he’s…” He dropped his arm and wrapped it around his stomach. “Ack, too much laughter, it hurts!” He slid to the floor, melting into a puddle of belly-laughs.

  She bore down on him, debating whether a swift kick in the gut would make him hurt worse. He looked up at her in helpless laughter, one hand over his stomach and the other across his chest, a lock of dark blond hair fallen over one silver eye.

  An odd tap on her shoulder caused her to whirl around. It was Room-Alvarr, grinning hugely. About to snarl at him, she realized something was amiss. She closed her mouth, peered into his eyes, then reached out to touch his hand.

  He felt…thin as air. Like moving through a cool mist. “What is this?” she said to Door-Alvarr, while pinning Room-Alvarr with her gaze.

  “That didn’t take long,” Thoren came up beside her.

  Door-Alvarr’s laughter cooled to chuckles. “No.” He rose to stand behind her and shut the door with a heavy thump. “Entertaining, but perhaps we need to fine-tune him a bit.”

  Thoren nodded. “I’ll work on that.”

  Staring at Thoren, Jilian pointedly ignored the man behind her. “So what is it?” She stabbed her finger toward Room-Alvarr.

  “An Image,” said the real prince, suddenly all too close. His deep voice reverberated through her—almost caressing. She gritted her teeth.

  He moved around to look at them both. “Thoren will control him—it,” he amended with a grin. “We’ll be away, but thanks to the Image, I’ll seem to be here.”

  “Seem, maybe—as long as there’s only looking going on, and no touching.” Jilian eyed the Image and tapped its arm to feel the mist again.

  “Now that would be a shame,” Alvarr purred.

  She looked at him askance and backed away a step.

  Thoren cleared his throat. “Enough.” He shot the prince a warning look. “I’ll work with your Image tonight to make it more realistic.”

  Alvarr nodded. “I’m glad this can succeed. I admit I had my doubts you’d pull it off.”

  Thoren raised an eyebrow. “Cur. I was your first master.”

  Laughing, Alvarr clapped him on the shoulder. “And always will be in some things.”

  “And what about me?” Jilian asked, hands on hips.

  Alvarr looked at her, puzzled. “You?”

  “You said not to tell anyone about leaving, but Varene already knows, and now Thoren. What if someone else comes looking for me?” Such as Rokad, when I don’t come to see my mother’s journals as I agreed?

  Thoren made a dismissive gesture. “We’ll say you’re in your quarters.”

  “And if they go there and I don’t answer?”

  “I’ll say you’re undergoing your Source training with him.” Thoren pointed to the Image. “That should keep them both out of trouble. I’m only going to make him—er, it—visible when necessary.”

  “Still, you should create one for me, too.”

  “An Image for you?” Alvarr said incredulously.

  She glared. “Why not? It doesn’t look so hard.” She glanced sweetly at Thoren. “And Thoren can handle two—can’t you?”

  “Er, I suppose I could…”

  “Fine, then.”

  “Well…”

  “No. I’ll do it,” Alvarr growled.

  She turned back to him. “You’ll be on the trip with me. Shouldn’t Thoren—”

  “I’ll make the Image and Thoren can maintain it.”

  Jilian narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Don’t argue. Just come here.” He pulled her alarmingly close and placed both hands on her face. “And don’t move.” She opened her mouth to protest. “Don’t talk, either.” He closed his eyes and inhaled.

  His palms were warm on her skin, and tingled. He smelled musky and very male. His scent tickled her, teased her. She shut her eyelids to fight off the evidence of his nearness.

  Soon she grew dizzy, her mind floating. Aware of his warning, she clenched her hands at her sides, but it was too much. Her knees threatened to buckle. Reaching up, she grabbed his muscled forearms and opened her eyes, dazed.

  His face inched closer, gray eyes searching hers. She struggled to recapture her composure.

  Abruptly, he released her. He held his arms steady as she swayed and rebalanced herself.

  “There, behind you,” he whispered, and looked past her shoulder.

  She let go of his left forearm, then the right, testing her balance, and turned.

  A shimmering, half-translucent replica stood in front of her. Breathing.

  Jilian stared into her own eyes. They looked back somberly. The bodice of “her” cranberry gown rose and fell, and the skirt rustled audibly as her Image took a step toward her.

  Jilian stood still, entranced, as her Image reached out and touched her face. A cool breath of air blew across her cheek.

  Then her Image smiled and spoke. “I can feel you.”

  It was surreal, almost creepy, but she had a hard time taking her eyes off…herself. Even though it was a herself through which she could see the other side of the room.

  “Why does she shimmer?” she asked Alvarr.

  “So my Image is an ‘it’, but yours deserves a ‘she’?” His mouth curved up.

  She sighed. “It, then.” She glanced back at the Image. “So weird to see myself…”

  Thoren raised his arm toward the Image and swept his hand from high to low. The Image solidified that way as well, with the ephemeral shimmer draining down to her toes and briefly onto the floor before disappearing.

  Jilian touched the Image. Still only mist, but she—it—certainly looked real now.

  “I’ll tinker with the sensation tonight,” Thoren said. “She will be able to fool someone if needed.” His eyes twinkled.

  She saw motion from the corner of her eye. Alvarr’s Image, forgotten until now, came to stand in front of her Image. From nowhere, soft music began to play—flutes, horns, and Renaissance-like drums.

  Pretend-Alvarr leaned down with a devilish grin, his elbow crooked toward Jilian’s twin. “May I have this dance?”

  Pretend-Jilian glanced up, batted her eyelashes, and placed her hand on his arm. “You may.”

  As the real Jilian looked on in horror, cheeks flaming, the Pretends began whirling and swaying in a dance she didn’t even know. Especially since she couldn’t dance.

  The real Alvarr sidled up next to her and breathed in her ear. “May I have this…”

  “No.” She stepped away. Could this get any more embarrassing?

  “Alvarr…” Thoren began.

  “I’m a wonderful dancer,” Alvarr said with a grin, taking Jilian’s hand. “Light as a feather.”

  “I’m more like cement,” she muttered, pulling her hand away.

  “Cement?” he inquired, eyebrows raised.

  In frustration, she waved her hands, searching for the words to describe it. “Rock…stuff.”

  He chuckled until she shot him a quelling glare.

  Thoren broke in. “Alvarr, I really think this should cease.”

  The prince seemed undeterred, and with a wolfish grin reclaimed Jilian’s hand, sliding his other palm around her waist. “Please, may I have this—”

  The door opened and Rokad walked in. He blinked and grinned. “A party, and no one invited me?”

  Releasing Jilian, Alvarr strode to greet him. “Rokad! Well met. You seem better indeed. And just in time. Come in.”

  Rokad crossed the room, giving the dancing Pretends a wide berth to observe them. He grinned at Jilian, whose cheeks burned once more. The warmth of Alvarr’s touch lingered
on her waist.

  The prince peered into the hallway. “Good, you’re here!” he bellowed. Bran stepped in, nodded at everyone, gave a single, unperturbed glance at the dancing Images, and crossed to Thoren to talk.

  Next, Varene entered with a friendly smile for Jilian and an amused laugh at the dancing Pretends. She waggled her fingers in the air in time to the music and whirled once to the rhythm of the horns and flutes, her long ponytail streaming behind her.

  Alvarr continued to stand in the hall, awaiting someone who was apparently moving slowly. A figure in black entered at last, alongside a man in ash gray who supported her. Nenth and Findar.

  Findar… Jilian swiveled to watch Varene. The Healer glanced at Nenth and smiled, then darted her gaze at Findar, where it tarried for a moment before bouncing away.

  A-ha! It’s still true! I wonder if Findar knows.

  When he saw the whirling Pretends, his lips twitched up. But beside him, Nenth’s face froze at the sight. Jilian thought it might crack off and shatter on the floor.

  Nenth’s gaze bolted to the real Alvarr. An anguished yearning glinted in her eyes, the first expression Jilian had ever seen there.

  Oh my God. Nenth…

  Nenth loves Alvarr.

  The realization smashed into Jilian even as the frolicking music swirled and mingled with people’s laughter.

  Nenth slid her gaze to Jilian, and as their eyes met, the motion of the dancers and the observers slowed to a crawl. Nenth’s dark eyes bored into her. Jilian cringed, horrified to witness the woman’s obvious pain and humiliation. And all for a joke, a silly joke.

  Alvarr reentered and shut the door behind him. He cleared his throat and everyone turned to him—except Nenth, who closed her eyes and looked away. Jilian’s gut twisted with empathy.

  “I’m happy to have you all here on the eve of an important journey.”

  Astonished, Jilian snapped her gaze to Alvarr. Journey? No one else was supposed to know! What did he think he was doing?

  The music stopped. The Images ceased their dancing and moved demurely to the fringe of the group.

  “My friends, as you’re aware, I will be away for several weeks.”

  They all knew? Anger seethed in her gut. Why had he forbidden her to tell anyone?

  “Jilian and I—” he smiled into her eyes, apparently oblivious to her ire— “hope to find the herb that—if Fate is kind—will cure her mother, Sara, of a grave illness.”

  Some of her anger cooled, but her fingers drummed on her arm.

  “On the journey, Jilian will learn the skills to become my Source. Her power is strong, and with her, we may be able to defeat our enemy, Bhruic, at very long last.”

  The audience murmured their assent and looked at Jilian with approval. She sucked in her breath and inched backward, helplessly on display.

  And the way Alvarr spoke of what was to come! As if she were a tool, an empty vessel, merely awaiting his instructions to fulfill her supposed destiny—a destiny she didn’t even want. How just like a man to arrange things around himself!

  “I know some of you disapprove of us going alone,” Alvarr continued. “But it must be so. Thoren has created my Image, which shall stand for me when needed outside this room. And at Jilian’s request—” his eyes teased her— “we’ve created one for her, too.”

  Jilian felt a pair of eyes drill into her again. She flicked her gaze to Nenth and gave a small, uncomfortable shrug. Nenth’s expression didn’t change.

  “Only you in this room know of my journey,” Alvarr added, “and it’s up to you to see my absence is unnoticed. I trust each of you with my life.” He looked around the room, lingering on every face. “You’re my Council, my advisors, my friends. Together—” he locked eyes with Jilian— “we’ll see Bhruic defeated, and free our realm from his threat forever.”

  “Hear, hear,” said the gathered company. Yet Jilian shrank back, wishing she could evaporate.

  “And now it’s time for the Ceremony of the Oath. Jilian has agreed to bind her life and goals to ours.”

  WHAT? I certainly did not! I didn’t agree to bind my life to anything, much less this world and its insane problems. She fought the urge to run, or to punch Alvarr. How she wished she could wake up in her own bed on Earth!

  Nerves thinning to spikes, she stared around the chamber at the people in Alvarr’s confidence. They clearly respected him, believed in him, believed in their cause.

  But it’s their cause, not mine! I have to escape, get home.

  Alvarr walked toward her. “It’s time.” He took her hand in his—his palm warm against her chilled bones—and guided her to the other side of the room along a runner woven with coats of arms with rampant lions, spread-winged birds and rising suns, each shield connected to the next by twining green vines. The carpet led to a white dais on which stood an ornate chair of purple and gold. Alvarr stopped her at the end of the runner, where he released her hand. He mounted the dais and sat in his throne.

  He wore no mantle, no crown, and his broad shoulders bulged tauntingly from his sleeveless tunic, unlike any prince she’d ever imagined—but Jilian felt his power. She stood before him, helpless, pinned, and alone.

  A gentle hand touched her back, and Varene whispered into her ear. “You must kneel for the oath.” The Healer retreated, merging into the line of courtiers on each side of the runner. Numb, Jilian knelt, her gaze on the rich carpet before her.

  “Jilian na Sara, daughter of my FriendMother, who was the greatest of the Sources of Teganne: Do you swear fealty to me, Alvarr, mage and Prince of Teganne, and to my cause, the defeat of the enemies of Teganne, including Bhruic the Cursed, Scourge of Fallorm and of all free peoples?”

  Her body shook. Breath rattled in her lungs even as her mind screamed. She raised her gaze to Alvarr’s.

  No, no, no! Adrenaline surged through her limbs, preparing her for fight or flight. The chamber’s arched door stood just a mere sprint away…

  His eyes looked into hers, steel gray now. They held the meaning of honor, responsibility, and trust.

  Her insides crawled with shame, even as she spoke the words. “I do.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Muffling a curse to avoid Alvarr’s notice, Jilian adjusted her weight in the fydd’s saddle to relieve her aching bottom. As a teenager, she’d prided herself on her horsemanship and the show ribbons she’d earned on the circuit of the local Palomino association, but that was a decade ago. Her seat and thighs were long unused to this kind of workout. The last thing she needed was a prince laughing at her and her sore rear end.

  Still, she mused, eyeing her mount, fydds had some charm.

  Hers, named Halbeth, was the shade of a prize-wining pumpkin. His coat was far from the proper gold of a Palomino, but then the third pair of legs would have disqualified him anyway—even if she’d trimmed his long, downy-soft fur.

  She snickered at the thought of bringing this beastie to the Wine Meadows Showground. He was too tall, too fat, and his face alone would incite chaos—a cross between a long-eyelashed camel and a bearded goat, with three umber nubbin horns across the forehead. Oh, the horrified stares they’d receive…

  At her huff of laughter, Alvarr gave her a sidelong glance over his shoulder. She composed her face and stared at the rocky path ahead.

  Her day had begun much too early, with Alvarr knocking on her door long before dawn. When she’d cracked her eyelids open and grumbled, he’d shrugged and said darkness would be best for everyone. They’d left before the sun rose, and she regretted not being able to see much of the city of Ysanne in the dark. The road west had been flat as they rode past rich fields and a meandering river, and then as the first hints of dawn lit the horizon behind them, they’d begun to climb toward the soaring hills she’d seen from the healing room’s window. Beneath the foliage carpeting the knolls, the rich earth resembled crumbled flavors of chocolate.

  Their long-legged fydds covered ground well, even at a walk. She wasn’t quite sure, however,
how they managed to prevent their six legs from tangling with each other.

  Alvarr’s mount, the nutmeg-tinted Blerra, maneuvered around a fallen boulder and Halbeth followed suit, his massive, plate-sized hooves thudding against the earth. Jilian glanced at Alvarr. He didn’t look much like a prince in his threadbare clothing and floppy hat, but she couldn’t escape the niggling facts. First, Alvarr was the Prince of Teganne as well as the reason she was stranded far from home. Second, the proximity of that hard-headed and hard-bodied male was greatly irritating—even with that body camouflaged in peasant garb. Unfortunately, she had an idea of what lay beneath the fabric. Damn her imagination.

  Her drab journey clothing matched Alvarr’s: well-worn laced ankle boots, a tan long-sleeved tunic, and trousers that fortunately lacked seams on the inner side of her thighs, which gripped the saddle for balance as Halbeth climbed the path. Her eyes were shaded by her own silly floppy hat and her neck by her ponytail, but she’d have traded her soul—or at least a good French kiss or two—for a pair of simple, drugstore sunglasses.

  Halbeth heaved over another obstacle, setting Jilian’s new pendant banging against her chest. She glanced down at the dangling silver symbol she’d seen above the door of her mother’s study—two dots, each trailed by a semi-circular line, thus forming the shape of a ring. Alvarr had given it to her during the ceremony as the symbol of their two joined worlds—and of her pledge.

  But she knew the real meaning. It was the symbol of her lies.

  Aiming a frown at Alvarr’s tall and silent back, she tucked the pendant inside her tunic. She’d had no choice but to lie; the balance of power between them wasn’t exactly even, and she’d do anything for her mother. The pendant was proof of that, too. At least she was on her way to finding a cure.

  The hours crept by. She could almost swear her body was growing new muscles for the express purpose of aching and tormenting her. When they stopped that night to camp in a small clearing off the trail, she wished again for the drugstore, this time to grab a family-size bottle of ibuprofen and a thick tube of Ben-Gay. Heck, she’d fill a pool with the stuff and waddle in, since waddling was about all she could manage at that moment. Her groans escaped before she was able to stifle them.