Kismet's Kiss: A Fantasy Romance (Alaia Chronicles)

by Cate Rowan

  Through the wall of fire, she stared in horror at Rokad’s ashen face.

  Out the lone door, she saw only more stone walls. Where would they lead? To more soldiers, more death?

  The officer pointed the cylinder at the other two in blue, with the same results.

  The new paleness of the woman’s face chilled Jilian’s blood.

  “Go,” the officer told his men. The soldiers slung the bodies of their fallen comrades over their shoulders and dashed out of the room.

  The officer turned to Jilian and Alvarr and grinned, his scruffy beard revealing a gleam of teeth. “Prince Alvarr sen Danyd,” he purred, with the slightest of bows.

  “Gurdan.” Alvarr’s voice was cold, nearly bored.

  Gurdan nocked an arrow to his bow and unhurriedly aimed it through the fire at Alvarr.

  DON’T MOVE, Jil. Don’t draw attention…

  Too late.

  Gurdan’s eyes slid from the prince to her. His gaze flicked down to her exposed ankles and slimed its way back up. She tensed, wishing she’d worn baggy flannels to bed instead of a thin silk nightgown.

  Alvarr’s grip tightened around her almost imperceptibly, as if reassuring her. “Gurdan,” he growled, “the longer you stay here, the shorter your life.”

  Gurdan smirked. “I doubt it. You’re in a FireRing. You’re protected from me—but so am I from you. If you drop the Ring, I’ll shoot you before you can cast.” With a malevolent sneer, he drew his fingers farther back, tightening the bowstring.

  Jilian stared at the red tip of the arrow. Arrows and magic spells! Where the hell is this place?

  Gurdan nodded at her. “She must be something special. Your friends paid a high price to shield her. I’m sure Bhruic would like to learn of your…lady, and contemplate her value to you.”

  Then he spat. The globule sputtered into nothingness as it hit the jade fire.

  Braced against Alvarr’s chest, Jilian felt his muscles tense in fury. When he spoke, his words reverberated through her body: “I have marked you. You’ll die before the sun is down.”

  A flicker of hesitation crossed Gurdan’s face. He tightened the bowstring and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Even if you kill me, what difference? Bhruic will prevail.”

  With that he pursed his lips, whistled three soaring notes…and disappeared. Jilian gaped at the empty air.

  Behind her, Alvarr held still for a moment. Then each muscle tightened further, and he howled in rage. The wall of fire vanished. Abruptly he released her and sprinted to Rokad’s motionless body.

  Her gaze darted toward the door. Run, Jilian! GO! But Gurdan’s soldiers had left that way. They might still be nearby—and what else was out there?

  Please let me wake up, oh PLEASE… She bit the inside of her cheek and her eyes watered from the pain.

  Not a dream.

  Alvarr knelt by Rokad and touched his shoulder, then tipped his head back in evident relief. He checked the other two cloaked people, muttering, “Emptied, wounded, but alive,” and then turned to her.

  “You,” he said, low and bitter, rising to his feet. “You saw. Why didn’t you send your kyrra?” Scowling, he closed in on her.

  She glared back, prepared to lash out. “Send what?” she shouted. “And who are you?”

  His lips tightened. “You’re a Source, the power—”

  There was a small whoosh and an explosion of pain above her left breast. She caught only Alvarr’s startled expression before blackness closed around her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Jilian finally woke, she kept her eyes shut, afraid of where she might be. A woman’s nearby voice sounded muddled, as if Jilian were underwater. The burning pain above her breast returned, though milder now.

  The voice became more focused. “Here, this will help.” Gentle arms helped her sit up, then a cup was pressed to her lips. The liquid tasted sweet, until she reached the bitterness at the bottom. With a grimace she leaned back, and the voice gave a kind laugh.

  Maybe I’m home, Jilian thought. She opened one eye.

  Definitely not.

  A bay window at the foot of her bed framed a landscape of exotic beauty. Tree-covered hills rose so steeply they seemed to defy gravity, and wispy clouds crowned their summits. Flowers in the formal garden below fluttered in vivid display. Gauzy curtains flowed around the open window, and the whitewashed walls and simple wooden table and chairs reflected the sun’s cheer.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” said the voice. Surprised, Jilian turned to see a smiling blonde with blue, wide-set eyes. The woman’s indigo silk gown was snugged against her graceful torso by gold laces down the sides, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Although she seemed close to Jilian’s age, she spoke with authority.

  “I’m Varene na Seryn, the Royal Healer.” She nodded at Jilian’s chest. “The healing trance worked. In a few days you’ll be as good as new.”

  Jilian looked down at the cloth bandages around her upper torso and left shoulder. The movement brought a twinge of discomfort, but not the searing pain of before. “What happened?”

  “One of Bhruic’s men shot you. Gurdan, I think it was.” Varene reached for Jilian’s mulberry blanket and tucked it in. “Thankfully, there was no curse on that arrow. They must have been in a hurry.”

  Jilian stared at the woman. It was as if Jilian knew the words of a new language, but the sentences were gobbledygook.

  “That was Gurdan’s final error.” Alvarr’s voice, unmistakable and ominously quiet, came from the arched doorway. He watched her, his jaws tight with anger.

  Staring at his angular, masculine face, she noticed the way the light seemed drawn to his dark silver eyes.

  God, he’s…gorgeous, she thought. And pissed off. Dangerous! Aware of her near-nakedness, she tugged the blankets higher.

  He stalked toward her. “Varene, would you excuse us?”

  Jilian swallowed. Please don’t leave me alone with him.

  An ambivalent expression crossed the Healer’s face. “She’s my patient, and she’s not fully recovered yet, so just behave yourself.” She headed toward the door and tossed him a warning look. “I’ll be back shortly to check on her.” Then she left.

  He slowed his pace as he approached the bed but his fierce expression didn’t waver. He pinned Jilian with a glare. “Rokad, Findar and Nenth—their magery is gone now.”

  She straightened, hauling the blanket up with her. Anger roughened her throat. “Look, tell me who you are. And where I am.”

  His nostrils flared. “I told you I’m Alvarr, and that I need your help. You don’t remember your own FriendSon?” A bitter note edged his baritone. “I may have been unborn, but you did stand for me before you left.”

  “‘FriendSon’? What’s that? And I repeat—” the words shot out of her mouth like BBs— “who are you?”

  Exhaling, he planted his hands ominously on the mattress, one on either side of her feet. The top of his green leather tunic splayed, revealing the cords of his neck. “My parents would be grieved to hear how quickly you forgot your homeworld, Sara.”

  “Homeworld?” she shouted. “What are you talking about? And I’m not…Sara…” Her voice trailed off as the name echoed in her head.

  No.

  Sara. My mother?

  What does my mother have to do with this?

  She sank against the pillows as her mind banged and heaved. Her hands began to shake, but she spoke as calmly as she could. “I’m not Sara. My name is Jilian.”

  Alvarr looked at her blankly.

  Shouldn’t she keep her mouth shut? Who was this guy, after all? Her mother’s name had to be a coincidence.

  Jilian’s uneasy gaze skimmed his fierce expression, then slowed, quieting, as she studied his dark-fringed eyes.

  Something deep within her unlocked.

  She took a ragged gulp of air. “I’m Jilian. But my mother’s name is Sara.”

  Alvarr held still. She counted his long breaths: first, second, a
third… Then the bed shook as he crumpled the blanket beneath each hand. Pushing away, he turned to face the window. He stood tall, broad shoulders and back to her.

  “You’re not Sara?” His voice was quiet, hard.

  “No.”

  “And you’re not a Source?”

  “I don’t even know what a Source is,” Jilian said softly.

  The muscles in his back tightened. “Then Bhruic has skewered me, and I had my own hand on the sword.” He turned and stalked from the room.

  Black, black, black was his mood. Alvarr thundered down the hallway, barely noticing the people scurrying out of his way. When he entered the great room, his rage erupted. “Thoren!” he bellowed. “Someone find Thoren and send him to the Council Room!”

  Those in the great room abandoned their tasks and scattered like fish whose calm pond is disturbed. The sight didn’t cheer him. He entered the Council Room and slammed the door. He knew the act was childish, and that didn’t mend his mood either. He paced the stone floor.

  “I see you’ve not improved your temper.”

  Alvarr whirled around and spied Thoren’s shimmering outline. “Don’t do that,” he snapped.

  Thoren’s Image offered Alvarr a mild look. “Projection is a skill even apprentices do without thinking. No harm in such small effort, and I’m recovering well from the illness. But if it bothers you, I’ll come in.” The Image faded. A second door to the room opened, and Thoren, still gaunt after fighting off a ruthless lung infection, stepped through it.

  Alvarr dismissed the issue with a wave of his hand and sank deep into a leather chair. “It won’t matter anyway, Uncle. I brought back the wrong woman.” Groaning, he stared at the wall and raked his fingers along his scalp. “She was at the portal, both during the Sending and when I Crossed. Father had described her—raven hair, eyes the green of gemforest. I didn’t seek further.” He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair.

  Thoren sank into the adjacent seat. Several breaths elapsed before he spoke. “With Rokad and the others emptied, there isn’t enough power to get the right woman. Or to send this one home.” He glanced at Alvarr. “Have you tested the borders?”

  “Yes. My spells are weakening, and the wardweavings will fail as well. I don’t know how long—a few weeks, perhaps. Bhruic will soon break through.” And there will be no one to stop him from destroying us. How many will die enslaved—or tortured? He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “What will you do?”

  “What can I do?” Alvarr growled. “I wasted much of my power in the Crossing.” Then, quieter, “My strongest mages lost their power because they trusted me.”

  “They know you’ve done your best. It could have been worse—thank Fate they’re still alive.” Thoren dropped his gaze and sighed. “So who is she?”

  Alvarr stared at the wall. “Sara’s daughter,” he answered in a monotone. Suddenly he shot to his feet. “Twice a fool!”

  He threw open the wooden door and raced down the stone halls. When he thundered into the healing room, Varene jumped up from Jilian’s bedside with an astonished look while Jilian clamped the covers over her breasts.

  Instantly, Alvarr recalled having his hands splayed along her side and the feel of her body pressed against him…

  He shook his head in irritation. “Varene, I need to speak with her again. Alone.”

  The Healer’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you’re fuming, but I warn you not to take it out on her.”

  He lowered his voice. “I just want to talk.” But Varene looked unconvinced. “I promise not to turn her into a bugget or a tinder-deer. She’ll be fine.” Displaying his empty palms, he forced a reassuring smile. The Healer seemed somewhat mollified, though her patient’s green eyes grew wide.

  After Varene departed, Alvarr paced next to the bed. “Jilian, how much did your mother tell you about Teganne?”

  She eyed him warily. “Nothing.”

  “But she looks like you? Your eyes, your hair?” Without thinking, he moved closer to her and fingered a glossy lock. It shone sable against his skin.

  “When she was younger,” Jilian said, avoiding his gaze. She discreetly pulled the lock from his fingers. Mom! She had to get home to her. But which direction was home?

  Alvarr lowered his powerful frame into the chair beside the bed, all too close. Even seated, he towered over her.

  “Your mother,” he began, “was born here in Teganne. She was a potent Source—a person with deep reserves of strength and power. Kyrra. Sources are very rare, and valuable. When a Source links with a mage, the mage’s energy is magnified.” He reached out and clasped her hand.

  Jilian felt a tingle as if a fuzzy caterpillar were crawling up the nerves of her arm. The tingle reached her midline and flared into every cell of her body. She gasped and jerked her hand away.

  Alvarr smiled, exultant. “Your mother was a Source, and so are you.”

  ***

  I hope you’ve enjoyed this excerpt

  of The Source of Magic.

  To purchase it or access a longer sample,

  just visit your favorite online retailer—

  where you can also purchase my other books.

  For information about my

  upcoming stories, visit my website:

  http://CateRowan.com.

  ***

  Turn the page for an excerpt

  from the fantasy romance

  Heart of Fire by Kristen Painter.

  HEART OF FIRE

  Kristen Painter

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  A shout ripped Ertemis from sleep. He bolted to his feet, yanked his sword from its sheath at his hip, and in a blur of flashing metal, prepared to deal death to the intruder.

  There was no one in the room.

  He relaxed and sheathed his sword, groaning as the remnants of last night throbbed anew in his skull. Cheap human ale. He rubbed his eyes, still stinging from the smoky tavern air.

  An aching head, gritty eyes and naught to show in his hunt for his birthfather. How the edge of his Feyre hungered for the bastard’s blood. He scrubbed his eyes again. Other than the Traveler’s tales, he had little to go on and time was running out. Surely, the Legion knew he’d deserted. If only his bond price weren’t so high.

  Midday sun spilled through the old wood shutter slats, slashing the dusty air into light and dark slices. He leaned his Legion-issued sword against the bed and picked his leather breastplate off the floor. Another shout rang through the air. He clutched his head. Vile, stinking, babbling humans. At least the residual effects of the ale dampened his heightened senses. More shouting broke out.

  What in Saladan’s name was going on? He dropped the breastplate onto the bed. The ruckus erupting outside needed squelching if there was any chance of further sleep. The more he slept, the faster his elven blood would work the healing magic that enabled him to pickle his brain night after night and kept his black skin scar free despite his many battles.

  He drew on his trousers, grabbed his sword belt, and unwedged the room’s only chair from beneath the rusty door latch. The scarred, faded leather notched easily into the silver buckle at his waist as he trudged down the steps. The belt settled low on his hips, the weight of the sword as comfortable as the press of a woman but far more reliable. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he stepped onto the crowded street.

  The brilliant noonday sun drove daggers into his head. He grimaced, shielding his eyes with his hand. People rushed through the streets, their faces drawn into worried masks. Even with his faculties dulled, the tang of panic hung in the air like burning refuse.

  The daylight, the noise and the crush of unwashed human flesh reminded of why he’d had the ale in the first place. Blunting his acute senses made time spent among humans a little less wretched. Night’s quiet solitude was preferable, and since quitting life as the Legion’s fatal messenger, night offered a security day did not. The Legion would soon realize their deadliest weapon had no plans of r
eturning. They would place a hefty bounty on his head, send men to hunt him. No one left the Legion until the Legion decided it was time.

  Snarling a curse, Ertemis narrowed his eyes against the glare. He scanned passing faces for someone who might know what was going on. Few returned his gaze, but the flow of humans split, giving him a wide berth.

  The frightened expressions as mothers pulled their children closer, the timid glances of men…none of it was new to him. Few sane people were of a mind to engage a dark elf, especially one of Ertemis’s size and current disposition. He hadn’t earned the nick “Black Death” for being kind and sweet.

  The crowd’s collective gaze crawled over his body like a regiment of ants, staring at his telltale black skin and the silver runes tattooed down his spine and up his slanted ears. With less ale and more thought, he would’ve donned a tunic and trousers. His clothed appearance drew stares enough but the sight of him shirtless stalled traffic.

  He wanted to shout at them to stop staring, that he wasn’t one of the Travelers’ curiosities to be gawked at. Instead, he ground his teeth and held his tongue. An outburst would only make them stare harder.

  A bright spot of green bobbed toward him through the sea of humans. He reached into the crowd, snatching the vibrant cloak of a small man coming toward him. The left side of the man’s face was a bunched mass of scars that disappeared beneath his tunic collar.

  “What’s this ruckus about?” Ertemis muttered to his captive.

  The little man stumbled and put his hands out to catch himself. He looked up, fear registering on his face. He stared at Ertemis in dumbfounded silence, mouth agape, eyes large.

  In his peripheral vision, Ertemis saw a crowd developing at a distance around him. The only thing he missed about the Legion was being left alone.